
torvwiGHT.iea?, by hahocoroorbach' 



^OOVl)aci)'S full tCSrti^Jtibc Catalogue of Dramas, Comedies, Comediettas, Farces, 
Tableaux-vivants, Guide-books, Novel Entertainments for Church, School and Parlor 
« Exhibitions, etc., containing complete and explicit information, will be sent to any addreM 
on receipt of a stamp for return postage. Address as above. 

y 



ROORBACK'S AMERICAN EDITION. 



PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. 

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This scries embraces thc'best of pla%s, suited to the present time. The reprints have 
been rigidly compared with the OTiginal acting copies, so that absolute purity of 
text and stage business is w.irraiih-d. Each play is furnished with an introduction 
of the greatest value to the stage manager, containing the argument or synopsis of 
incidents, complete lists of properties and costumes, diagrams of the stage settings 
and nracticablo stcne-plots, with the fullest stage directions. They are hand- 
somely, printed from new electrotype plates, in readable type, on fine paper. 
Their complete introductions, tcjitual accuracy, and mechanical excellence render 
these books far superior in every respect to all editions of acting plays hitherto 
publishe i. 

1. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama In two acts. Six 

male, th>ee fenude characters. Time, two hours. 

2. A SCRAP OF PAPER, A comic drama in three acts. Six male, six female 

. liaractets. Time, two hours. 
-. MY LORD IN LIVERY. A farce in one act. Five male, three female charac- 
ters. 'Isj^me, fift>- minutes. 

4. CABMAN No. 93. A farce in one act. Two male, two female characters. 

Time, (orly minutes. 

5. MILKY'WHITE. A domestic drama in two .acts. Four male, two female char 

acters. Time, one hour and three quarters. 

6. PARTNERS FOR LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Seven male, four female 

characters. Time, two hours. 

7. WOODCOCK'S LITTLE GAME. A comedy-faice in two acts. Four male, 

four female characters. Time, one hour. 

8. HOW TO TAME YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW. A farce in one act. Four 

male, two female characters. Time, thirty-five minutes. 

9. LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET. A drama in two acts. Four male, three female 

characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. 

10. NOT SO^AD AFTER ALL. A comedy in three acts. Six male, five female 
char.icters.^ Time, one hour and forty minutes. 

11. WHI^H IS 'VHICH ? A comedietta in one act. Three male, three female 
characters. Time, fifty minutes. 

12. ICI ON PARLE FRAN^AIS. A farce in one .act. Three male, four female 
characters. Time, forty-five minutes. 

13. DAISY FARM. A drama in four acts. Ten m.de, four female characters. 
Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 

\\. MARRIED LIFE. A comedy in three acts. I'ive male, five female characters. 

lime, two hotirs. 
15- A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, 

three female characters. Time, fifty minutes. 
l3. LEND ME FIVE SHILLINGS. A farce in one act. Five male, two female 

characters. Time, one hour. 
17. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Original Version. A drama in six acts. Fifteen 

male, seven female characters. Time, three hours. 
13, UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— New Version. A drama in five acts. Seven 

male, five female character.>. Time, two hours and a quarter. 

19. LONDON ASSURANCE. A comedy in five .acts. Ten male, three female 
characters. Time, two hours and three quarters. 

20. ATCHI I A comedietta in one. act. Three male, two female characters. Time, 
fort\' minutes. 

21- VVHO IS WHO ? A farce in one act. Three male, two female characters. 
Time, forty minutes. 

2a. THE WOVEN WEB. A drama In four acts. Seven male, three female char- 
acters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 

}^^Any o/the above ivUlbe sent by niail^ fost-J'aid, io any address, en receipt 
0/ the J>ricc. 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St.,. New York. 



DAISY FARM 



AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



HENRY J. BYRON 



New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the Ori- 
ginal Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original 
Cast of the Characters, Synopsis of Incidents, 
Time of Representation, Description of the 
Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- 
grams OF THE Stage Settings, Sides of 
Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- 
tions OF THE Performers, Expla- 
nation OF THE Stage Direc- 
tions, ETC., AND all OF 

THE Stage Business 



Copyright, 1889, by Harold Roorbach, 




^ COPYRIGHT- ^-^o-- 

^^C 141889 ' 



NEW YORK 

HAROLD ROORBACH 
PUBLISHER 



\ 




DAISY FARM, 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 



First performed at the Olympic Theatre^ London, on Monday, 
May ist, 187 1. 

Andrew Armstrong Mr. G. Belmore 

Charley Burridge Mr. C . Warner 

Simeon Cole Mr. W. Blakely 

George Warriner Mr. E. W. Garden 

Mr. Craven Mr, H. J, Byron 

A Tramp Mr. J. Carter 

Mr. Dobson Mr. Newbound 

Mr. Wigfall Mr. Butler 

Mr. Grabham Mr. Franks 

Mr. Gaffer Mr. Smith 

Bridget Armstrong ". Miss Hughes 

Cribbage Mrs. W. H. Listen 

Kate Cole , Miss O'Byrne 

Jane Miss Murray 



Time.— 77/^ Present Day. 
Locality. — Near Buxton, in Derbyshire. 

Time of Playing — Two Hours and Twenty Minutes. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Andrew Armstrong, a sturdy farmer of middle age, has been hap- 
pily married, late in life, to Bridget, his early love, who, in a fit of 
pique after a lover's quarrel, had married one Burridge, an unprincipled 
vagabond, subsequently lost at sea. Charley Burridge, a rolling stone 
inheriting many of his father's faults, after trying his hand at various 
pursuits, now returns from London where he is being educated in medi- 
cine at his stepfather's expense, in debt, out of health, and disgusted 



4 DAISY FARM. 

with his profession. He has long been engaged to be married to Kate 
Cole, a vivacious, wholesome girl, the niece of Simeon Cole, retired inn- 
keeper and reputed usurer, who cherishes a secret hatred for Armstrong. 
Staying at the farm is a certain Mr. Craven, a middle-aged gentleman 
of leisure who has recently saved Kate's life from drowning, is more 
or less attentive to her, beloved by Armstrong and disliked cordially by 
Charley and Cole, Cole, in the hope of ultimately ruining Arm- 
strong and thus satisfying an old grudge by foreclosing his mortgage, 
has lent the latter the necessary money for making certain improvements 
on his farm. While thus indebted, Armstrong has just withdrawn his 
savings from the bank, hearing reports of its impending insolvency, and 
thus has all his ready money in his pocket, Charley, under the abso- 
lute necessity of having £2.y:> to extricate himself from debt and disgrace, 
not daring to confide in his stepfather, turns in desperation to Craven 
for aid, but, offering dislionorable terms, meets with a cold repulse which 
confirms the enmity between the two men. Charley, retiring in angry 
disappointment, nearly upsets Cribbage, a faithful and comical maid of 
all work with a partiality for George Warriner, a farm hand. Arm- 
strong has observed his stepson's manner closely and feels convinced 
that the latter is in some strait that he dares not make known. While 
speculating anxiously what the trouble may be and how he can avert it, 
he is interrupted by the entrance of a tramp who, to Armstrong's hor- 
ror, reveals himself as David Burridge, Bridget Armstrong's former 
husband, supposed to be long since dead. Burridge names ;^500 as the 
price of his silence and departure, which Armstrong willingly pays, and 
is left in a state bordering on madness at the turn matters have taken. 

Charley, having repaired to the village inn where he has been drink- 
ing heavily through the evening to drown his care, while engaged in a 
wrangle with several villagers who have revolted against his domineering 
ways, is deeply agitated by the receipt of a letter urging him to return at 
once to London to clear himself of a terrible charge, and indicating that 
certain money must be paid at once, with the alternative of swift ex- 
posure and punishment, While he is in a state of despair at his position, 
the Tramp enters, having been sleeping off the effects of drink above 
stairs, shows a large sum of money while paying his reckoning, and an- 
nounces his purpose of departing that night for the next town, by a 
lonely and dangerous road. The ostentatious display of the Tramp's 
money arouses a demon in Charley, who, unperceived, has observed it 
with all the intensity of a gambler whose last stake is at hazard. He 
follows the Tramp doggedly, encounters and robs him in the lonely road. 
In the course of their struggle the Tramp falls with a wuld cry over the 
edge of a cliff ; Charley proceeds on his way with his plunder, 
followed by Craven who has appeared just after the attack. 

Armstrong, now thoroughly broken down, feeling that circumstances 
require his immediate separation from Bridget, though he does not re- 
veal to her the true state of affairs, determines to depart for America, 
ostensibly to visit his brother, and arranges with Craven that the latter 
is to account to Mrs. Armstrong as satisfactorily as possible for his de- 
parture. As this is arranged, Simeon Cole having lost all his available 
cash through the failure of the bank, and needing money to meet an emer- 
gency, suddenly presents to Armstrong a promissory note of the latter's 
and demands its payment forthwith; but Armstrong, having given all 



DAISY FARM. $ 

the money he had to the Tramp, is unable to respond. While the money 
lender is fiercely denouncing him as a swindling imposter, Charley en- 
ters, haggard and pale, and discharges his stepfather's obligation, account- 
ing for the large sum in his possession by pretending to have staked it 
on a winning horse. But as the money is counted out, Armstrong recog- 
nizes several of the bills as the identical ones that he himself had paid to 
the Tramp. The truth breaks upon him with sickening force, and he 
shrinks back with a wail of grief, half accusing Charley of robbery, to 
the wonder and concern of the others, without, however, denouncing his 
stepson entirely. 

Armstrong is now crushed with a double secret from his wife — her 
first husband's return and her son's crimes. Craven forces an inter- 
view with Charley, in the course of which he boldly accuses the latter 
of the robbery and murder of the Tramp, but agrees to compound his 
London embarrassment, conditionally on his leaving Daisy Farm and 
giving up Kate. Bridget enters, unperceived, during the latter part 
of the interview, listens with horror to Craven's accusations, and with a 
shriek, recognizes a picture produced by the latter, which he had picked 
up near the cliff, as the portrait of her first husband, David Burridge. 
Charley, unable to bear this misery and wretchedness longer, makes a 
clean breast of it, telling how he had fallen into bad company, goi; into a 
money scrape, was threatened with exposure, and, tempted by the sudden 
sight of money in the hands of the Tramp, had robbed the latter, the por- 
trait being in his pocket-book with the bills. At this juncture the Tramp 
himself appears to levy further blackmail and is recognized with anger 
by Armstrong and relief by the latter's stepson. Bridget, who 
has at first beheld the tramp with dismay, after watching him ear- 
nestly and comparing his features with the portrait in her hand, de- 
clares that the man is not David Burridge. Craven, who. also, has 
observed him searchingly, recognizes and denounces the sham Burridge 
as Richard White, a private soldier under his command in a late foreign 
war. The impostor, thus brought to bay, confesses the cheat and is dis- 
missed after explaining how he happened to impersonate the real Bur- 
ridge who is actually dead. Charley is sent to America to retrieve him- 
self, while the ever faithful Cribbage makes a match with the man of her 
choice. Simeon Cole is settled ; the indications about the future of 
Kate and Craven are favorable ; the dark clouds of uncertainty are 
dispersed by the bright ray of truth ; and happiness once more finds its 
home beneath the roof-tree of Daisy Farm. 



COSTUMES. 

Armstrong. — Black velveteen coat: red waistcoat; gray trousers; 
white cravat; red handkerchief; gray wig. 

Burridge. — Gray suit and hat; fancy colored shirt, with black neck- 
scarf. Short side whiskers. 

Cole. — Suit of black, black hat and gloves; white neckcloth; bald 
or half bald white wig. 

Warriner. — Gray waistcoat and loose trousers, flannel shirt; coarse 
low shoes and gray socks. Face made up sunburnt, lips very red. Short 
red curly wig. 



6 DAISY FARM. 

Craven.— Morning suit and Derby hat of same color. Short light- 
gray wig and military mustache. Carries light cane. 

Tramp. — General appearance shabby but not ragged. Comforter and 
slouch hat. Gray hair, and grizzly beard a week old. 

DoBSON. — Black waistcoat and trousers; white shirtsleeves and apron. 

WiGFALL, Grabham and Gaffer. — Plain business suits. 

Bridget Armstrong. Plain house dress, white apron. 

Cribbage. — Print dress, caught up over colored petticoat; fancy cap 
and ribbons; shoulder knot; buckled shoes; no sleeves. 

Kate Cole. — Walking costume. 

Jane, — Cambric dress, cap and apron. 



STAGE SETTINGS. 

Acts I. and III. 



LandscapeBacking 




UiWoiM 



.Do 



Chair 



Tshh %> Ch&irs 



Tahie \ CAairs 




Act II. — Scene /. 




Jhor 



DAISY FARM. 
Act \\.- Scene hi. 



Mcunimn ^^^ ^ Q -^>^ ^^^'^ 



]iQise^£ank 



"I 



^ 



ACT IV. 




2.av(Iscqpe J3aclcinq 

\Door I ' Mnic 






Door 




SCENE PLOT. 

Act I. — Plain chamber set in 40., with landscape backing in 5 g. 
Window, R. C, in flat. Door L. C. in flat. Doors R. I E, and L. i E. 
Dresser or cupboard L. Fireplace and mantel shelf at R. 3 E. Tables 
and chairs R. c. and L. C. Three chairs up stage. 

Act II., Scene i. — Public house tap-room set in 3 G. Door in flat, R. 
C. Window l. c. in flat. Doors R. IE. and L. 3 E. Fireplace and 
mantel shelf at l. i e. Tables and chairs R. c. and L. C. Chair up c. 
Arm chair R. of table L. c. Sporting pictures on walls. Sign hung 
against flat, painted " Wine, Spirits and Porter." Rack to hold pipes 
over mantel shelf. 

Scene 2. — Landscape in i g. 

Scene 3, — Chfl" overlookmg ravine and road. Moonlight, Raised 
bank running across stage in 3 G. Mountain landscape backing in 4 G. 
Trap c, behind bank, with small tree and shrubs near it. Set rocks 
and foliage r. and l. 

Act III. — Same as Act I. 



8 DAISY FARM. 

Act IV. — Parlor set in 4 g,, backed with landscape backing in 5 g. 
Door R. c. and window L. c. in flat. Doors R. i e. and L. 3 e. Fire- 
place R. 3 E. Cabinet at c. Bookcase L. Tables and chairs r. c. and 
L. c. Chair near fireplace. Sofa up L. Carpet down. 

PROPERTIES. 

Act I. — Samples of corn. Knives and forks in box, and table cloth for 
Cribbage. Pocketbook and money for Armstrong. Pocketbook for 
Tramp. 

Act II,, Scene i. — Lighted clay pipes. Spirits and water in glasses on 
table. Cane for Charley. Newspaper. Letter for George to bring 
on. Mug of beer for Jane to bring on. Bottle of champagne and glass 
on tray, for DoBSON. Large purse containing money, for Tramp. 
Heavy stick, up stage. Eyeglasses for Wigfall. 

Scene 3. — Same pocketbook and money for Tramp. 

Act III. — Cloth, mug of milk, loaf, etc., and part of breakfast service 
on table. Money for Craven. Pail for Cribbage. Document for 
Cole. Tramp's pocketbook and money, for Charley. 

Act IV. — Cane used in Act III. Money, picture and bank check 
for Craven. Pictures on walls. China and bric-a-brac on cabinet, c. 

STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

Observing, the player is supposed to face the audience. R. means right; 
L.,left; C, center; r. c, right of center; L. C, left of center; R. D., 
right door; L. D., left door; D. F., door in the flat or scene running 
across the back of the stage; i E., first entrance; 2 E., second entrance; 
U. E., upper entrance; i, 2 or 3 G., first, second or third grooves. UP 
STAGE, toward the back; down stage, toward the footlights. 
R. R. C. C. L. C. L. 

Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original 
authorized acting edition, without change. The introductory matter has 
been carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book 
protected by copyright. 





DAISY FARM, 



ACT I 



Scene. — The Kitchen at Daisy Farin. Large latticed window 
in Flat, R. c, showing sunny landscape, corn fields, etc., all 
warm and rich. Door in fiat, L. C. Large old-fashioned 
chimney corner, R.U., with dog fire alight, but not blazitig. 
Everything comfortable and homely. Music to take up cur- 
tain. 

Bridget Armstrong stands at door. 
Brid. What a fine fellow ! what a fine, manly fellow ! How he 
strides along as if he were lord of the manor. Ah, they were 
right when they said, " Mrs. Armstrong, send Charley to Lon- 
don — it'll make a man of him ; " and it has made a man of him, 
too — if the folks about do say he's become a cockney, so much 
the better, say I ; a little London polish wouldn't do any of our 
neighbors any harm, {comes down from window as her hus- 
band, Andrew Armstrong, enters, with Charley Burridge, 
her son, and Andrew's step-son. Andrew is a sturdy farmer 
of middle age. CHARLEY is dressed in modern style, and has a 
rather restless and dissatisfied air, and a slightly disap- 
pointed look. The music, which has continued piano through 
Bridget's speech, swells as they enter, and then ceases) 
Brid. Well, Charley, and what do you think of it all } 
Char. Oh, /don't know. Lot of money thrown away, /should 
say. Daisy Farm always did very well without improvements, as 
they're called ; but there, /know nothing about it, and perhaps 
I'm wrong, {crosses, R.) 

And. Yes, you are wrong, Charley, and you don't know any- 
thing about it — there you're right. I don't believe you could 
tell a turnip from a bunch of " sparagrass," lest they were 
cooked. 

Brid. Ha ! ha ! I'm sure he couldn't. We didn't send him to 
London to be a doctor to learn all our farm stuff. His is a dif- 



lo DAISY FARM. 

ferent line, Andrew, old man, and you wouldn't be altogether at 
home, you know, amongst his medical books and instruments, 
and prescriptions and things. And how do you seem to cotton 
to the doctoring business, Charley dear ? 

Char. Oh, pretty well — I don't adore it. 

And. It strikes me, Charley boy, you don't adore anything in 
particular — you turned up your nose at farming — you tried the 
law for a bit, but that didn't suit you — then we got you into the 
Linkburn Bank, but you found it irksome — then you thought 
you'd like to be a doctor, and now you don't know w/^^a;/ you'd 
like. I don't want to speak harsh, my boy, but all this hasn't 
been done without expense, and my improvements here have 
rather drained [crosses to Charley) 

Char. I know, governor, I know what a good step-father you've 
been to me — better than fifty real fathers rolled into one. I know 
I'm a bit of a black sheep, I 

Brid. No, no, I won't have that. Flighty and a bit unsettled 
you may be. It isn't altogether your fault. At all events, your 
father's other faults 3'ou don't inherit. 

And. Now, now, Bridget, don't let's talk of his father. He's 
dead and gone, and his faults are not a-going to be reproduced 
in Charley here. Fm his father now, and I ain't perfection. 

Char. I don't know that, governor ! You're not far off, I 
never heard you say an unkind word of anyone, or saw you do 
an unkind act, or knew you break your promise, or — or— {sighs) 
Ah, I wish I was a bit like you. 

Brid. Why, Charley, you've taken to flattering ; and positively, 
Andrew, you're coloring up. 

And. Am I, Bridget ? — Well, perhaps I ajn ; it's with pleas- 
ure, though ! I like to hear Charley speak like ///«/y (Brid- 
get sits, L.) he don't often do it. Sneering somehow seems to 
come easier to him. 

Char. I know it does. It's a sort of pleasure to sneer when — 
when you're in debt, and in a profession you don't like, and in 
bad health, and — and {sits on R. table) 

Brid. And in love, Charley. You'll get better, dear, when 
Kate keeps your house and you settle down. 

Char, {impatiently) Ha ! 

And. Kate's uncle's behaved very well to me, Charley. I had 
to borrow money to complete the outbuildings and so on, and 
he come down quite liberal with his money. Of course his secu- 
rity's all right, and 

Char. That I'll warrant — a close-fisted old thief ! 

And. Now, now, remember he's Kate's uncle. 

Char. Well, when I marry Kate, if— if I ever do 

And. What? 

Brid. Charley ! 



DAISY FARM. n 

Char. No, I don't mean /^a/— don't catch up a fellow's words, 
mother ; of course we know that I am going to marry Kate 
Cole ; hang it, the engagement's been of long enough standing 
— the fact's public property. What I was going to say is that I 
shall stipulate that her uncle, Simeon Cole, Esq., retired inn- 
keeper and reputed money-lender, shall not favor my house with 
his presence, certainly not more than once or twice a year. I hate 
Simeon Cole ! I 

And. Now, now, Charley, Charley, don't use such strong 
language. Mr. Cole's never done you any harm, and he don't 
in any way interfere with your engagement to his niece ; and 
Kate's as dear and good a girl as ever lived, {busy with sajnpies 
of corn, etc.) 

Brid. Hear, hear, and so she is, and better. 

Char. Well, who said she wasn't ? Of course I'm awfully 
fond of her, and — and all that sort of thing ; but I don't go 
spooning about, and neglecting my clothes, and letting my hair 
grow long, and fight shy of my food, to show my affection. I — 
where is she now, I wonder ? she might be here to be a bit of a 
companion to a fellow, I think. She don't know how soon I may 
be off. 

And. She's somewhere in the neighborhood — she was here a 
bit back. 

Brid. Yes, she walked to Ladmoor with Mr. Craven. 

Char, {bursting out) There ! that's not the thing, you know. 
(Andrew ^^/j to fire, r.) 

Brid, What, Charley ? 

Char. Why, walking about with Mr. Craven, or whatever his 
name is. You don't know who he is, and simply because he 
happens to come and lodge here and pay decently well, you — 
you 

And. Now look here, Charley. I'm a simple sort of man, and 
don't pretend to know more of human nature than my neighbors, 
but 1 can tell a gentleman as soon as most. Mr. Craven's a gen- 
tleman. I'm not above, and your dear mother ain't above, 
taking a reasonable sum for finding Mr. Craven in board and 
lodging at Daisy Farm, so long as he chooses to remain. He's a 
kind man — a considerate man ; he's in poor health, but don't 
complain ; he likes our simple, homely ways, and has endeared 
himself to us by a hundred little kindnesses that have pleased us 
both. Kate's safe enough in his society, be sure ; and not an- 
other word against Mr. Craven, or you and me'll fall out, {gets 
over to L.) 

Brid. Besides, Charley, remember if it hadn't been for him 
Kate might have been drowned — he risked his life to save her, 
and in his delicate state of health 



12 DAISY FARM. 

Char. Oh, delicate state of health I I'm in a delicate state of 
health. 

And. Yes, but you don't risk your life. 

Char. I wasn't there — he was — girl gets upset in a boat — man 
sees it who knows how to swim, and jumps in, as a matter of 
course, and saves girl. Nothing very remarkable in it that /can 
see. 

Brid. Still, Charley, if he hadn't acted as he did you would 
have lost your future wife. 

Char. Well, let's drop Mr. Craven, mother, for we shall never 
agree about him. 

Craven speaks outside. 

Brid. Here he is — and Kate too. Now don't be rude to him, 
or cross with her, Charley, please, dear. 

Enter Kate a7td Craven, l. c.from l. 

Kate. We've had such a walk, Mrs. Armstrong — suck a walk, 
Charley. 

Char. Ha ! hope you enjoyed it. 

Kate. Oh, wonderfully. 

Char, {aside to her) Ha ! such pleasant company, eh ? 

Kate. Oh, yes, Mr. Craven has been most amusing. 

Char, {aside) Devil doubt him. {turns, goes up to window) 

Crav. Detestable young man that — what on earth can she see 
in him ? Oh woman ! woman ! {at fire) 

Char. Well, you didn't have an accident to-day — eh, Kate ? — 
no tumbling into the water, or or 

Crav. No, not altogether without a risk, though ; a bull came 
very threateningly towards us crossing the ten acre meadow. 

Char, {sneeringly ; advances c a little) Ha, indeed ! and 
what did you do this time, sir, eh ? 

Crav. What I always do with an unpleasant brute — looked at 
him with utter contempt, {looking steadfastly at Charley) 

Char. Oh, and the 

Crav. The unpleasant brute ? Oh, he — he — a — turned on his 
heel — his hoof, I mean — and retired. (Charley turns up c.) 
They generally do. (Andrew, Kate, and Bridget have been 
talkitig up c. — aside) What on earth does that sulky young ruf- 
fian do here — here, where all is peace and comfort and simple- 
hearted content ? Bah ! he's the fly in the amber — no, rather 
the wasp in the honeycomb ! If that bright girl marries him, 
she's — she's — well, she's not as bright as I take her to be. If 
ever there was a pleasant family group upset by an unwelcome 
addition, it is here with Mr. Charles Burridge. He's a bad 'un ! 



DAISY FARM. 13 

Enter Cole, l. c. 

Cole. — How do — how do all — glad to see you ! Ah, Andrew ! 
Mrs. Armstrong, blooming as usual. (Bridget down) You're 
a perennial plant, ma'am — there's no difference in you sum- 
mer or winter, autumn or spring. He ! he ! he ! 

Simeon Cole is a hard-featured, miserly-looking elderly 
man, whose joviality comes in a very forced way from 
his lips, and his general tone and appearance are by no 
means pleasant. During the dialogue between CHARLEY 
and Kate he takes off his hat and gloves with great 
precision. 

Char, {aside to Kate) I tell you I don't like it. Here, come 
where we can talk a bit. That fellow Craven never takes his 
eye off one. Has he got any money ? 

Kate. I don't know, but I'm sure he's very generous ; he's 
always giving to poor people, you know, and buying things he 
can't want. 

Char. Is he though ! I must have a weed or I shall drop. 

Kate. Oh, there are lots of them in the kitchen garden. 

Exeunt, L. c. 

Crav. Ha, ha ! You're a child of nature, you are. [aside) 
I'd like to join them ; but two's company and three's none. 
{sighs) Ha ! not even for himself, {after a look after the^n) I'll 
go and smoke a pipe up my bedroom chimney. Exit, R. i e. 

Brid. You're in a good humor to-day, Sim — who have you 
been getting the best of now, eh .? 

And. Ay, ay, well said, old woman. Ha ! ha ! Cole, she 
knows you, eh ! 

Cole. Not a bit, man, not a bit. She never knew me, never 
cared to look for a bit of goodness or generosity in me — never. 

Brid. Why, you see that would have taken such a long time, 
Sim, and I've always had my hands full of work. 

Cole. Yes, a toiling, moiling time you've had of it, and serve 
you right. When Andrew there and me were rivals 

And. Here, drop those times. Cole. Bridget's had enough 
hard trials, and if she ^zV/ throw me over and marry a vagabond 
— {crosses to COLE.) 

Brid. Don't, don't, Andrew ; we know all I suffered at David 
Burridge's hands, but he's dead and gone, and there's no reason 
his son — my son — should hear bad reports of his father in our 
house. Andrew, {takes his hand) I fear he's heard of them 
already. 

Cole. Like enough, like enough, for if ever a rascal gave the 
lie to the old saying, " Folks born to be hanged'll never be 
drowned," David Burridge was 



14 DAISY FARM. 

And. {bursting out) Look here, Cole. He is drowned, ain't 
he.? 

Cole. Yes, oh ! he's drowned all right, that's positive, Andrew 
Armstrong, that's tnore than positive — he's at the bottom of the 
ocean, safe enough. 

And. Well, there let him lie. 

Cole. He could always do that, whether he was let or not. 

And. {with Bridget) To-morrow's the anniversary of our 
wedding day, and we don't want to talk of unpleasant matters. 
Bridget and I have both suffered for our foolish, wicked quarrel 
of years back — it was more my fault than 

Brid. No, Andrew, no dear, that I'll never allow. I was 
madly jealous and vexed without a cause when I married David 
Burridge, and I found out my mistake when it was too late. If 
I suffered through the long years, j(?« suffered too, but when we 
got the news of his death, and you said to me one day, with the 
same old loving smile and with the same honest hand held out 
that you'd grasped mine with so many years ago, — " Bridget, we 
have yet some years before us, let us hope. Shall we wipe out 
the wicked past, and be as we were before we parted ? " {rises) 
what could I do but fall upon his neck and cry myself blind with 
joy and happiness, to learn there was the old love lingering still. 
(^goes up with Andrew.) 

Cole. Ah, it's wonderful how a love will last, and a hate too — 
a hate for anyone who's wronged j/^« (aside) As you did, Mr. 
Andrew Armstrong (Andrew sees Bridget out, r. I e.) ; and 
I'll lime you yet, my ancient bird — I'll lime you yet. {to Andrew) 
What's this absurd news about Pembridge's Bank ? 

And. {at fire) All I know is that I've heard ugly reports, and 
I've drawn out every shilling only this morning. 

Cole. And got it here f 

And. And got it here. 

Cole. Idling — no interest — waste of capital — catch me listen- 
ing to such reports. I'll risk the trifle /have there, and take my 
interest cheerfully. 

And. I've worked too hard for my small capital to risk it for a 
day ; and after all the money I've expended on improvements, 
thanks to your help, Cole. 

Cole. Don't name it — I've ample security, more than ample. 

And. Hang it — we know that — whoever heard o{ you lending 
a shilling if you didn't see it in the distance stretching into 
eighteen pence. I say, after all I've laid out here, only a poor 
400 or so is what I can truly call my available cash — so I drew it 
out of Pembridge's. 

Cole. Like a coward. 

And. {annoyed, turning on him) Eh ? 

Cole, {cringingly) Which you used not Xo be. 



DAISY FARM. 15 

And. Ha ! that thrashing I gave you behind Digby's barn 
some four and twenty years back pretty well proved, eh — Sim 
Cole, Esq. ? 

Cole, /remember it. 

And. Yes, you were insolent about Bridget. 

Cole. I said she'd throw you over — well ? 

And. Well, I threw you over for saying it. We're grown older 
since then. Cole. 

Cole. A trifle. (L. C.) 

And. And wiser. 

Cole. Mayhap, mayhap. 

And. But I could thrash you now like — like a dog. 

Cole, {rubbing his chin) Yes, but it might interfere with the 
mortgage. 

And. {depressed) Ah, well, you've got me there, {turns aside 
up, c.) 

Cole, {aside, pleased) I believe I have. 

Re-enter Craven with Bridget, r. i e. 

Brid. But I can't let you pay it, sir, I really can't let you ! 

Crav. My dear Mrs. Armstrong, permit me to have my own 
way. If I agree to pay you so much, or indeed in your case I 
may say so little, per week for board and lodging — and I receive 
the very best of board and lodging in the society of a delightful 
couple — and I choose to ask for something altogether out of the 
pale — entirely, in fact, out of the pale 

And. [to Bridget) Does he mean extra milk } 

Brid. No, no, Mr. Craven, neither me nor Andrew would 
allow you to pay one extra farthing, would you, Andrew } 

And. By no means. Don't know what it is : but my wife 
speaks my sentiment, sir, always. 

Crav. Then I'm dumb. 

Cole, {seated, R., aside) There's a pair of idiots — wants to pay 
something extra, and they won't let him — it's depravity ! 

Crav. Well, Mr. Cole, how do these east winds suit you ? 

Cole. Catch me in the chest, sir, dreadful. 

Crav. Ha ! don't like being caught there, do you ? Charming 
girl, your niece ! (COLE crosses to L. of R. table) 

Cole. You do me proud, sir. 

Crav. Strangely unlike /^w. 

Cole. Takes after her father, sir. 

Crav. Ha ! take much after him ? 

Cole. Eh ? 

Crav. Money, I mean. Well provided for, I suppose. 

Cole. ( suspiciously) Hem ! That's as things turn out. 

Crav. Just so. She's engaged, I believe ? 



i6 DAISY FARM. 

Cole. Ye-e-es. 

Crav. Approve of the match ? 

Cole. Partially. 

Crav. Sensible answer — caution is evidently one of your 
bumps. 

Cole. One of my 

Crav. Bumps — knobs on the nut, you know— cranium—phren- 
ology — Professor what's-his-name, and all that sort of thing. 

Cole. Oh ! {aside) Very peculiar man— don't like him. 

Crav. Young man has a career before him— very fond of med- 
ical men — like 'em so much can't bear to trouble 'em. 

Cole. Yes, it has always been my desire that my niece's hus- 
band should not be a mere farmer or tradesman, but should 
belong to a liberal profession. 

Crav. Of course, you admire liberal professions— though you 

a— don't always act up to them. (ANDREW ttudges his wife 

in the side and they both burst into laughter, much to Cole's 
annoy atice.) 

Cole, {aside) What are you roaring at ? I must go and find 
Kate, and put her on her guard against this jackanapes. He's 
no good, I'll go bail. Good-morning, sir, good-morning, {curtly) 
Here, come here, Armstrong, I want a word, {takes him off, 

L. C.) 

Crav. {coming c.) I don't care about Cole— object to men who 
are called Simeon, as a rule. 

Brid. Well, he didn't name himself, you know, Mr. Craven. 

Crav. No, his father did though. Wickedness is hereditary, 
Mrs. Armstrong— bad father, bad son. 

Brid. {starting, and with a look of pain) Oh, don't say that, 
Mr, Craven, don't say that it is always so. You are a clever 
man, have been a great traveller and know the world, and 
human nature, and a load of thmgs, and don't — don't say it's 
always so. 

Crav. {aside) Confound my loose tongue ! {to her) My dear 
hostess — I have seen the world — so did the monkey — we resemble 
each other — not you and I — but me and the monkey, and please 
pay no attention when the latter chatters, {goes to R.) 

Enter CHARLEY, L. C, comes quietly down, goes to R. 

Brid. {aside) Can't make him out, and that's a — Charley ! 
How quietly you come in. 

Crav. Quite right. Doctors can't be too panther-like — soft 

step — soft"\'oice soft paw — soft — well, generally soft till they 

make out their bill at Christmas — then they become hard — a — 
with the frost perhaps. 

Char, {aside) Mother, you get out, please. 

Brid. Charley, you're not going to 



DAISY FARM. 



17 



Char. No, I'm not. 
uneasy glance at him. 
who sits in chair.) 

Char. Mr. Craven, 
I'm going to say. 

Crav. If it's anything agreeable, my young friend, I dare say 



There. (Exit BRIDGET, R. D., after an 
Charley takes chair opposite Craw'EN, 

I dare say you will be surprised at what 



I shall. 
Char, 
Crav 
Char 



You have thought me an unmannerly cub. 

{slight pause) Go on ; at present I am «o/ surprised. 

But I'm distressed— I'm hard up. I'll confide in you 
because you're a gentleman, as any one can see with half an eye, 
and if you don't help a fellow, you won't go blabbing about to 
people when he confides in you. 

Crav. But why confide in me ? I'd much rather 

Char. I must. I'm like a man with a murder on his mind. I'm 
like a fool who sends conscience- money to the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer. I must speak to some one. I can't break my mother's 
heart. 

{aside) I don't kftow that. 

You seem fond of the place and the people in it. You're 



Crav. 
Char. 

well off. 

Crav. 

Char. 
putting 
scrape. 

Crav. 

Char. 

Crav. 



Am I? 

Look here, {rises, looks in his face) Mr. Craven, I'm 
myself in your power. I'm in a scrape — worse than a 
In three days time, unless I pay £250, I'm a ruined man. 
Well ? 

Worse — disgraced in other ways. 
Excuse the word — criminal ? 
Char, {turfiing aside) Well — you may call it so. 
Crav. Ha ! that's awkward ! 

Char. You think it odd I should ask for such a sum from a 
stranger. 

Crav. Not at all— you'd be scarce likely to ask it of any one 
who knew you. 

Char. Eh ! {aside) Is he jeering at me ? {to him) I haven't 
asked you for it yet. 

Crav. You remember Punch's advice to persons about to 
marry ? 

Char. Of course, it was, " Don't." 

Crav. Exactly. Now in this matter, pray follow the sage 
counsel of our — a — facetious contemporary. 
Char. What ! not marry ? 
Crav. No — don't ask me for the £250. 

Char. V^qW— I— {suddenly) But I tell you, man, I must have 
it! 

Crav. Oh, if you must have it, all / can say in the matter 
is 



i8 DAISY FARM. 

Char. Well? 

Crav. Get it. 

Char. Pah ! I can't ask Cole — he'd not give me or lend me a 
sixpence. My stepfather is an obstinate man, and would insist 
on knowing all, and I couldn't — I daren't tell him. It was a 
sudden thought of mine to speak to you. Everyone said you 
were generous, kind-hearted, and had taken strangely to the farm 
and its inmates, and 

Crav. And so you thought you'd throw yourself on my gener- 
osity — and so on. 

Char, {suddenly and pleased) Just so — you have hit it exactly 
— you read me like a book. 

Crav. I never read books, now, they're so deuced bad. What 
security could you offer t 

Char. Anything in the world. 

Crav. That's more than ample. Define it. 

Char. Well — I — let me see — {aside, delighted) He'll do, it, and 
I'm saved. 

Crav. You'd make any sacrifice to save your honor — your 
liberty, perhaps ? 

Char. Any you could name. 

Crav. Kate, for instance ? 

Char, {starting) What ! {aside) He's not in jest — there's a 
look in his eye that tells me he's in earnest, {to him) What do 
you mean ? 

Crav. I mean, supposing you could obtain the money and clear 
yourself — wipe away all dangers or discomfort — would you 
undertake to give up all claim to the hand of Miss Kate Cole ? 
Take a moment or two to think of it. 

Char, {aside) What a strange fellow. But where can I turn 
for the money ? Kate seems to care less for me — much less for 
me than she used, {to him — Craven goes to the fireplace) Sup- 
pose I said yes — what then ? 

Crav. Then I should be confirmed in my suspicions. 

Char. Eh ? 

Crav. Concerning your character — and it would be out of my 
power to assist you even then. 

Char, {after drawing a long breath) Oh ! Then you have 
simply been treating me like an idiot. 

Crav. How should a man be treated who confides in one little 
better than a stranger .? Bless your stars you haven't told me 
more, {crossing, L.) 

Char, {slight pause) The days of duelling are over, Mr. 
Craven, but were they not, I'd put your courage to the proof be- 
fore to-morrow. Out of respect to the others here, I refrain from 
administering 

Crav. There, there, you go and administer your drugs — square 



DAISY FARM. 19 

the money — walk your hospital — pass your examination, and be- 
come a licensed poisoner to your fellow-creatures. And be as- 
sured that pleasing as it would be to you to call me out, I shall 
never return the favor by calling ^^« in, by no means, {turns 
aside to R., in front) 

Char, {aside, with intensity) Don't let temptation come in 
my way this day or night — if it does — {turns abruptly, meets 
CribbagE, who has entered with a box with knives and forks, 
and a table-cloth, door in F, She stops, etc. CHARLEY pushes 
past her impatiefitly) Here, get out of the way ! (Exit, L. C.) 

Crib, {turns, looking out after Charley) Oh, I wonder if 
they teach manners at the hospital where you re a studying. 
Bringing you up as a gentleman, are they, that'll cost 'em a 
pretty penny — Ah ! {starts at finding herself near to Craven) 
Laws ! I hope he didn't hear me. 

Crav. Your young master is a subject on which our senti- 
ments, Cribbage, are strikingly similar. 

Crib. Young master ! He ain't no master of mine. I've never 
known but two masters — him as pays me my wages, and hired 
me from t'other 

Crav. T'other ! Might I inquire who was t'other ? 

Crib, Work'us — where I was brought up liberal, I'm what 
master c^Us a wafer and a stray, you know. But laws, it's all 
the same a hundred years hence, ain't it 1 

Crav. You're quite a philosopher. 

Crib. What sort of a hossifer's that ? 

Crav. One who takes things quietly. 

Crib. What, a sort of a prig ? 

Crav. They sometimes degenerate into that, like all folks who 
over-ride their hobbies. 

Crib. Oh, they're horse soldiers, eh .? Well, now, as sure's 
my name's Cribbage 

Crav. Yes, but why Cribbage t 

Crib. Why, you see, when I was left a hinfant in the most 
mysterious manner at the 'Ockley Union, the master and a friend 
were having a game of that name, and were dreadful put out at 
me intruding at such a particler time. The master was quick- 
tempered, and when he sees the cause of the interruption he 
went on dreadful. " What's this," says he, " what's this," says 
he, " to come and upset one's calkylations, and throw one off 
one's game just as one's a winning ?" "Give it a name," says 
the matron. "Suttingly," says the master, "call the little 

creetur Two for his heels, or one for his nob, or " " Scuse 

me," says the matron," " it is not an 'im, it's an 'er." " Call her 
Cribbage, then," says he, almost malevolent ; " and you can add 
peg if you like, and don't bother no longer," So you see, from a 



20 DAISY FARM. 

hinfant I've been Cribbage ; and then I got a place here, and a 
good place, too — a good missis, a good master, and a 

Crav. Quite right, and you're a very good young woman, 
Cribbage, and go about your work cheerfully ; and whenever 
that young man with the high color, who has a peculiar habit of 
strolling in to ask you the time about twenty-five times a day, 
a.nd you make a match of it, count on a wedding dress and plum 
cake from yours truly, {crosses to her^ C.) 

Crib. Laws, now, you don't mean it. 

Crav. I think I do. 

Crib. Go along ! {ivith a playful shove in Craven's ribs) 
Why, Jarge has never said nothing — Jarge hasn't. 

Crav. Jarge, as you term him, has a pair of eyes which are 
large and expressive — not to say goggly, and they have said 
quite sufficient for folks like you and me, Cribbage. 

Crib. Laws, what a gentleman you are ! I never ! {sniggers) 
You're that cool I believe if you was in Indy. {During this^ 
Cribbage is laying cloth on l. h. table.) 

Crav. I've been there. 

Crib, {laying table) Laws ! hot there, ain't it ? 

Crav. I've known it warm. 

Crib. All blackymoors there, ain't they ? 

Crav. A sprinkling. 

Crib. What's the natives like ? 

Crav. Close as oysters. 

Crib. Know how to make rum, I reckon. 

Crav. That's the West Indies. 

Crib. Oh, is that another Indy ? 

Crav. Quite a different Indy-vidual. That's situated in the 
tropics. 

Crib. Of course — I've often heard master say, " Let's change 
the tropic^"' so there must be more than one of 'em. 

Crav. You travelled much, Cribbage .^ {getting round to R., 
at back.) 

Crib. I've been twice to Ladmoor, that's nine miles, and once 
to Barnside, that's eleven. 

Crav. Quite a rover — go by rail ? 

Crib. No. 

Crav. How ? 

Crib. Legs — they never has collisions. 

Crav. Ha, ha ! how about knock-knees ? (Exit, R. i E.) 

Crib. That's a good fellow, that is ! He's one who can look 
you in the Hi ! When I see him thrash big William Bags who 
was pelting little half-crazed Ted Wilkins, and then see 
him wipe little Ted's eyes and taking him by the hand, com- 
fort him, and talk pleasant all the way to his mother's cottage — 
says I, Mr. Craven, Esquire, you're a gentleman ; and so — so — 



DAISY FARM. 21 

was Jarge a gentleman, for when I told him of it he gave bully 
Bill another thrashing a top o't'other. 

Enter ANDREW, a little aftttoyed, atid sits L. of R, table. 

And. Cribbage — what are you doing ? 

Crib. Nothin'. 

And. Then go and finish it somewhere else. 

Crib. Ha ! (aside) Master's been a takin' a leaf out of his 
stepson's book, I think. There's a storm brewin' in this here 
house, I fancy, for I nev^er see such threatenin' lookin' weather 

in the shape of temper since I oh, I'm a goin', master. (Exit 

L. I E. sharply, as ANDREW /z^r«j- towards her impatiejitly .) 

And. There's something on the lad's mind, and he won't tell 
me what it is — he darent tell me what it is — he has all his 
father's secret and suspicious ways — and if his mother knew — 
but there, there — she must never know anything against her boy 
and never shall if /can help it, (crosses L.) 

A Tramp appears at door, looks i7i, then enters dowii c. 
He is about fifty, shabby, but not ragged. Wears a 
comforter and slouch hat, grizzly week's beard. 

And. I fear more for that lad's future than I do for anything 
else in the world ; but when I remember his father's nature — 
his — [looks up and sees Tramp) Well, my friend, and what may 
your business be ? 

Tramp. Ask your pardon for want of ceremony, but I want to 
talk a bit to you, sir, on particular business, but perhaps we shall 
be interrupted. Hadn't we better go somewhere a bit, more 
private than this .? 

And. I never saw you before to my knowledge, and anything 
you've got to talk about you can say out here. I haven't got any 
secrets myself, and I don't want to hear no one else's. What's 
your business, please, and let's have it short, and to the point. 
(crosses, l). 

Tram. You shall, Andrew Armstrong. Have you got a good 
memory for faces .'* 

And. Yes, as good as most, mayhap better than most. 

Tram. Then look at mine, {with a twitch of one hand he 
takes off the wrapper round his neck, throws off his hat with 
the other, and fiings back his shaggy hair, disclosing his face 
thoroughly. Andrew staggers back in horror.) 

And. No ! no ! no ! it can't be ! it can't be you, David Bur- 
ridge ! it can't be — eh ? {utterly overcome, sinks into chair, L., 
and only stares blankly at BURRlDGE.) 

Tram. Don't take facts upon hearsay again — /never did. The 
papers told you the whole crew was drowned — my name pub- 
lished amongst 'em ; but when the " Conway Castle," foundered 



22 DAISY FARM. 

off Gibraltar, two of the crew escaped by a miracle — one was 
Jack Walters, able-bodied seaman ; the other, David Burridge, 
steerage passenger, and husband of the woman you've married. 

And. {dazed in his ?nanner, and scarcely able to speak) Stop ! 
wait ! hold hard a bit, and — and — let me get my breath — man, 
muffle up your face awhile, and let no one see you till — till {in a 
hoarse voice) I've thought of what's to be done, {turns aside.) 

Tram. Aye, think of that, {leisurely puts round his neck his 
large neckerchief and takes his hat in his hand.) 

And. This is so sudden — so terrible ! it will break her heart 
— she must not know — she must never know, {turns to Tramp) 
What — what — do you intend doing ? {crossing to him.) 

Tram. One of two things. Remain here, and 

And. {in horror) No ! no ! no ! 

Tram. Or, if provided with the needful, to go away — another 
country — Australia, say. You know I had a hard domestic life 
of it — my fault, no doubt ; that's over, and I shouldn't care much 
to renew it. There, that's owning up. But my wife's committed 
a certain crime, and you've got to pay for it. 

And. {with power) She committed no crime, but the law 
would call your conduct now a crime, and rightly too. You 
know, David Burridge, that when I pay you your demand it is 
because I would lay down my life to save the woman you took 
from me one moment's sense of shame. This cruel news breaks 
up the home that has been so happy, for {sadly) I should not 
remain another day beneath the roof of Daisy Farm. 

Tram. What— oh, if you are going, /^better remain. 

And. You must not be seen — it must never be known that you 
— that you — would you kill her — the — the — mother of your son ! 

Tram, {doggedly) You've heard my views — and you know 
there's no sentiment in me. 

And. Your price, man, then — your price for your departure — 
and your silence. How much — say — decide quickly — your price ! 

Tram. £500. 

And. I have drawn all the ready money I possess from the 
bank this morning, and you shall have your hush money, David 
Burridge. There {business with pocket-book) — a few are county 
notes, but most are Bank of England, and 

Tram, {taking one) Here, what's this one? Cut in two, and 
stuck together all wrong like \m\.\\ pink paper. That's strange ! 

{Music swells) 

And. Yes, yes, but it's good and will pass ; and there — there — 

Tram, {takes them greedily) Ha, ha, ha ! This is the only 
money my marriage ever brought me — and — I won't have this 
one, it's got the mark of blood upon it. {Music swells) 

And. I did not heed that, but it's nothing — now, there's the 
money— so — so, David Burridge — I implore you, man ! 



DAISY FARM. 23 

Tram, {places notes in old purse) All right ! You'll never see 
me again unless they refuse to change that £10 note with the bit 
of pink paper, and the twenty-pounder with the stain of blood. 
Don't forget 'em, Andrew Armstrong — don't forget 'em. 

(Exit, L. C. and "R., pas sifig window) 

During this speech Andrew has been forcing hint up 
towards door L. C. Andrew sinks on seat, then he rises 
with an effort apparently to go after him. Enter Craven 
and Bridget, r. i e. 

Crav. Well, I can't compliment you on your visitors if that 
awful looking cad who's just left you's a specimen. Armstrong, 
my friend, you're ill. 

Brid. What's the matter, Andrew dear ? How pale and trem- 
bling you seem. Andrew, why don't you speak ? 

And. {skritiking from her) I — I — I've been a bit upset — I shall 
be better directly {sinks into a chair) — better directly, dear {in a 
broken voice), ever so much better, {his head sinks on his arm 
— the others seem concerned at his emotion) 

Act Drop. 



ACT II. 



Scene I, — The Reindeer public-house, a better class roadside, 
half ale-house, half inn. Fireplace, L. H, door in fiat r. c. 
The roojK is a sort of kitchen-parlor, comfortable but common. 
The time is evening, late on. There are one or two tables and 
some chairs about the stage. WiGFALL, fishmonger and 
church-warden, is seated in armed Windsor chair, L. C. 
DoBSON, the landlord, is seated near him, Gaffin, a grocer, 
and Grabham, a stationer near. They have spirits and 
water and some are smoking. Charley at fireplace stand- 
ing twirling a stick, and with his wide-awake on. His 
manner is sharp, sneering, and offensive, and he has evi- 
dently been drinking to drown his care. Music to take up 
curtain. 

Dob. {a grimy old publican) I must say, Mr. Wigfall, as I agree 
with your sentiments on the subject in totum. I consider you to 
be a party as should be inwariably looked up to — inwariably. 

Gaf. {a thin, lanthorn-jawed, serious man in black clothes) 
Suttingly, suttingly ; and my young friend, if he will pardon the 
liberty I take in calling him so, would show better sense if he 
listened to the remarks as emanates from my lips. 



24 DAISY FARM. 

Wig. {a sleek, pompous, elderly man) Though I say it as 
shouldn't say it, I agree with you, Mr. Gaffin. Mr. Burridge 
may belong to a learned profession, he may be {oratorically 
waiving his pipe) a walking his hospitals, and a studying his 
chemistary, and his phizzyoUogy, and also his Farmer's copea — 
he may be a learning how to take off limbs and cure the various 
ailments of our suffering nature, but {indignantly) he is not to 
come down here to play " my lord " over responsible parties who 
pays their way. 

Others, No, no ; course not ; quite right. 

Dob. I must say as his sentiments was Mackyvellian, quite 
Mackyvellian. 

Char. Well, this is a house of public entertainment, I presume, 
and I don't see what prescriptive 

Wig. There you are with your medical language again. Pre- 
scriptive indeed ! 

Char. Don't see what prescriptive right he has to dogmatize 
and lay down the law unquestioned — no, no more right than he 
has a vested interest in that chair — the easiest in the room, I 
observe. 

Wig. Sir, if I am a fishmonger, I'm a gentleman, at least I 
consider myself one. Trade's the backbone of this prosperous 
country. I consider it an honor to be a tradesman. P'raps you 
consider it more respectable to do 'em. {sfnokes with self-satis- 
fied air) 

DOBSON nudges Gaffin, Charley laughs sjteeringly as he 
crosses to R. table and sits ; the others go through the 
action of talking. Grabham is reading a county news- 
paper. 

Dob. His father was a bad lot before him. Many a hour he's 
spent in this room drinking deep, and talking savage about 
everybody — specially his poor wife, as was a gentle fool to him. 
Now the late lamented Mrs. Dobsori 

Gaf. Which of 'em, Dobson, which of 'em ? 

Dob. {dignified) I said the late one Mr. Gaffin. The two 
Nearly ones is passed into what a party might call obliviufn. 
She wouldn't have stood such conduc'. 

Gaf. She was just the least bit of a tartar, eh, Dobson ? 

Dob. {quietly) The cream on 'em, sir, the cream on 'em. But 
{smoking) I tamed 'em, I tamed 'em all three. 

Enter George with letter, r. 

Geo. Evenin', gentlemen- {seeing Q\iK^\.YN) Ah, you're 'eer, 

Master Charles. 
Char, {rather alarmed) Yes — what — what is it ? 
Geo. Why here's a letter as was left at our house marked 



DAISY FARM. 25 

immegiate and important, and you'd gone off so sudden like, 
saying you didn't know whether you was comin' back or no, 
misses sent me after you with it. {takes letter out of pocket and 
hands it) I'd a main sharp walk on it, and {looking at glasses) 
the wind be moity dry. 

Charley has opened letter and seems stroftgly agitated, but 
endeavors to master his emotion, and conceal it from the 
others. 

Geo. (L. C, aside, with half grin, after looking at the others 
drinking) Now if anyone were to arfer me pint o' ale now — dang 
me if I wouldn't take it. 

Char, {who has just caught the remark, with an effort) Here, 
bring him some beer, (aside) This is the final blow, {rests his 
head oti his haftds in deep thought) 

Gaf. {to DOBSON) What was his father like ? d'ye recollect 
him ? 

Dob. Well, I can't say I do, to call him to mind ; it's many a 
long year since I set eyes on him, and I've known so many 
scoundrels since his time that I've mixed 'em up like. 

Enter GiRL with beer. 

Geo. {takes it) Thankee ; my dooty, gentlemen, {drinks) 

Wig. (r. c, who has been looking through his glasses at 
George) We must draw the line at ploughmen in this parlor in 
\ht future^ Mr. Dobson, if you wish to retain the cream of your 
customers. Hem I good evening. (Exit, R. D.) 

Char, {half furiously, to Dobson) Here, order in a bottle ot 
champagne. 

Dob. Certainly, sir. D'rectly. (Exit, R, hurriedly.) 

Char, [aside) It's bound to be poison ; but I'm in the humor 
for poison now. {direct) George, you can go. 

Geo. Ah ! yes. No message ? 

Char. No. 

Geo. Then I wish present company good evening, {meets 
Dobson r., Dobson with champagne) Oh, that's the stuff, 
eh ? 

Dob. Yes, my friend — Moet. 

Geo. xMow it ! I'd like to do that at three shillings a hacre. 
He, he ? (Exit,R.) 

Dob. Had the cork drawed at the bar. {puts it on table by 
Charley, who hurriedly pours himself out some in a tumbler) 

Dob. {looks at him, then at his empty glass, then significantly 
at Gaffin) Going to have anything more, Gaffin ? 

Gaf. K— {looks significantly across at Charley, who is paying 
them no attention) N — no, Mr. Dobson, I think not. Dobson, 



26 DAISY FARM. 

you're not going to let that half tramp, half hawker that's upstairs 
stop, are you ? He's no good, I'm certain, and the sooner he's off 
the premises the better for your house's credit, and our comfort 
you know, (at D. R. F.) 

Dob. No, no, I wouldn't have him stop the night in the house, 
but he was took with a sort of fit like, and 

Gaf. Yes, yes, but don't let's find him here to-morrow 
evening. 

Dob. Oh, all right ! (Exit, L. 3 E.) 

Gaf. {to Charley) Good — a — good — a {being unnoticed, he 

goes outhuffi'y, D. R. F.) 

Char, {reading letter which he has hastily crushed into his 
side pocket) " I write this to you in the hope that your sense of 
shame, your regard for me, and your own honor, and most of 
all — for — for — " {his voice breaking) " for your mother s sake, 
you will return and clear up this terrible business. You know I 
am in poor circumstances, and — " {bursting out and rising) Why 
did he ever give me his books to keep, and let one shilling pass 
through my hands, when he might have known the result "^ The 
money must be paid, or he is a ruined man, and has no alternative 
but to expose me — to hand me over to the punishment I deserve. 
Poor, struggling Doctor Graham, it would be a sore trial io you 
to place your wayward pupil in a felon's dock, but — {after a slight 
struggle, and with a gulp, striking the table) He'll do it — he 
must do it ! I'll — bah ! let's have some more of this. {J>ours out 
champagne and drinks, then crosses to fireplace, L.) 

Enter DoBSON, L. 3. E., leading on the Tramp. Z^^ Tramp 

seems a little dazed in his mariner as if he had been sud- 
denly roused whilst sleeping off the effects of drink. 

Dob. There, there, my friend, you'll be all right. It's the open 
air that you want, take my word for it. 

Tram. Oh, thank you for nothing. I'm not thinking of inflict- 
ing my company on you any longer. I'm bound for Longnor, 
and I can walk it if I have been a bit off my head and so on. 
Here, what's your bill, eh ? {pulls out large leathern purse ; as 
he does so Charley looks round unperceived — the Tramp has 
his back to him.) P'raps you thought if you let me stop here I 
couldn't afford to pay. 

Dob. I never mentioned such a 

Tram. Ha, ha ! you meant it though. I'm rich enough to pay 
my way if I'm a bit seedy to look at. We cattle dealers don't 
care to do the grand, but we carry about a tidy sum on occasion. 
Ha, ha ! look there at that greasy old pocket-book — there — there 
— there, {takes out some of the notes with a coarse air of osten- 
tation) Look there, my generous host ; ever ready to welcome 
the traveller if he hasn't got a torn coat, and a ragged waistcoat, 



DAISY FARM. 27 

and a weather-beaten old hat, eh ? I shall put up at Longnor to- 
morrow night, where the landlord of the " Dragon " won't be so 
squeamish. That's a 50-pounder, that is {rises) — ever see one 
before ? 

Dob. I'll assure you, if you'll only change your mind, I'll make 
you very comfortable, and 

Tram. Bah ! that's a queer fellow, that is {looking at ftotes), 
but he's good for a tenner, if he is cut in half : gummed all 

crooked, too, and Ha ! {with a slight shudder) I don't like 

the looks of that one, {shoves them into book and puts it ifito 
his side pocket) Now, good-night. Let's see, nearest road's 
along the "Duke's Drive " — there {flings down a crown) that'll 
pay you for what I've drunk, a crown. Bother the change. Good- 
night, mister, good-night, {goes out, a little staggery) 

During this speech Charley has watched the scene with 
all the intensity of a gambler whose last stake is at 
hazard, his countenattce plainly showing the evil thought 
suggested at sight of the money. 
Dob. This'll be a warning to 77te. 

Char, {endeavoring to speak cahnly^ and master his agita- 
tion) That fellow might come to grief, Dobson, if the night were 
a moonless one. 

Dob. Moon or no moon, a man who's had a sort of fit, and 
been drinking hard like him ain't partickler safe along the ridge 
of them rocks overlooking the Bakewell-road. I've heard of 
more than one nasty accident " Lover's Leap " way, and nobody 

ever knew if they w^i- accidents or 

Char. Of course they were — a man might grow dizzy there in 
his soberest senses. I've done so myself often, {drinks again) 
I'm going now, Dobson. I'll pay you for that wine to-morrow. 
Good-night. 

He draws a long breath aside ; his teeth are firmly set, 

and his face wears a half dogged, half wild look ; he 

takes up a heavy stick at back, and is going oiit after 

giving it a slight swing, apparently to try it. 

Dob. Good-night, sir. That's Mr. Gaffin's stick you've taken 

— he's left it here. 

Char. What ! Oh, yes, I see. I often use one just like it, and 

fancied I'd brought it out with me this evening — thank you. 

{looks at Dobson, who looks at him in the face. Charley 

drops his eyes, and turns aside uneasily — takes his stick from 

Dobson) I — a — a — remember now. (Exit, r.) 

{Music swells^ 

(Dobson crosses to fireplace) 

(Change) 



28 DAISY FARM. 

Scene II. — Front. Landscape, 
Enter CRAVEN.. 

Crav. When a man reaches the age of forty he either devel- 
opes into a fool or a clever fellow. I can scarcely say which 
category I come under. I should think myself a clever fellow if 
I wasn't certain I was a fool. I can't get that girl out of my 
head. If she marries this young whelp what a life he'll lead 
her ! Can she really care for him 1 I can't believe it. — (Enter 
Kate.) Dear me, Miss Cole ! Talk of the — a — the angel, 
and 

Kate. You think it strange I should be out so late, and alone. 
The fact is, I am very unhappy, Mr. Craven. 

Crav. Do you always go out late when you're unhappy ? If 
I'd done that sort of thing I should have passed my nights al 
fresco for many years, 

Kate. Why, what on earth cds^you have to make you unhappy ? 

Crav. What have I to make me happy, you mean ! Look at 
me — a lonely old bachelor 

Kate. That must h^ your fault. You needn't be, I'm sure. 

Crav. {aside) Now, if 1 were a vain man I might look on that 
as — hem ! She can't care for young Burridge. 

Kate. You, who have mixed in all sorts of London society, 
why- — — 

Crav. Believe me, society's much the same everywhere. Ex- 
cept that London society is rather more detestable than any other, 
it differs but little from the rest of the world. 

Kate. Do you find all society detestable, then ? 

Crav. {aside) I'll swear she can't care for him. {to her) No, 
indeed ; some society — or, rather, the society ot somebody, I find 
dangerously delightful. 

Kate. Why " dangerously ? " 

Crav. Everything's dangerous that tempts a man to make a 
fool of himself. 

Kate. I'm s>nx^ you couldttt make a fool of yourself. 

Crav. Nature having anticipated the operation, eh ? Believe 
me, you're mistaken. We all deserve the appellation at times. 
For instance, when we care for, or think we care for, somebody 
totally unworthy our affection. 

Kate, {aside) Poor dear man, he's been thrown over by some 
heartless woman or other, {to hijft) It would be difficult, Mr. 
Craven, for you to find anyone worthy of so generous and so 
brave a man's regard. 

Crav. {aside) I'm very sorry for the young fellow, but it's plain 
as a pike-stafifshe don't care twopence for him. [to her) Ah, 
Miss Cole— Kate— may I call you Kate ? 

Kate. I wish you always would. Who has a greater right to 
do so 1 



DAISY FARM. 29 

Crav. {aside) Poor Burridge I Much as I despise him, I 
can't help pitying him ; but he'll get over it. 

Kate. You know you saved my life. 

Crav. But if I saved it for another ! 

Kate. Another life ? What do you mean "i {aside) He's very 
strange in his manner. He often complains of his head. I hope 
there's nothing going to be the matter with him. 

Crav. Kate — since I tnay call you Kate — if — if I had known 
you, say, some fifteen years ago, 1 might have been a happier 
man. 

Kate. Indeed } Why, I should only have been four years old. 

Crav. {aside) How damn'd matter of fact some women are ! 
{to her) After all, it's right, you know, for a husband to be older 
than his wife. 

Kate. Of course — a little older. But why do you speak to me 
on such a subject ? You're quite odd. 

Crav. Odd f I'm aware of that, and I'm tired of it. I want 
to be even. Supposing — supposing — of course if present arrange- 
ments were to fall through, and you found out that some one 
who ought to care iox you, really only cared for himself — could 
you, do you think, ever — hem ! — care for somebody else ? 

Kate. Somebody else ? And who might that somebody else 
be ? 

Crav. Some one who would appreciate you as you deserve to 
be appreciated ; some one whose experience would — 

Kate. Oh, no ! no ! I can't bear experienced people, 

Crav. {blankly) Cant you ? Ha, I'm afraid I atii rather ex- 
perienced. 

Kate. You ? Oh, Mr. Craven, I see what you are thinking 
of — you — you do not like Charley, and would counsel me to think 
twice before I 

Crav. Just so. To think a thousand times — taking a day, 
we'll say, to every think — that would take up over two years. 
{aside) And by that time Mr. Burridge would be transported to 
a certainty. 

Kate. I am sure you will like him when you know him better. 

Crav. Yes, I should like to know him better, {aside) I couldn't 
know him worse. 

Kate. But you ought to make some allowance for the errors 
of youth — you should indeed, at — 3ii your time of life. 

Crav. Hang it all, I might be eighty ! It's this confounded 
white hair of mine. But I'll soon make an alteration there. I'll 
— I'll begin to dye to-morrow. 

Kate. Not at all, Mr. Craven. I'm sure you've many years be- 
fore you yet. 

Crav. Yes — Hal ha ! I don't think you quite understand me. 

Kate. No, no, perhaps I don't ; but I must say good evening. 



30 



DAISY FARM. 



for I've got some work to take Mrs. Armstrong-, and if I wait any 
longer I'm afraid I shall find Charley out. {shakes ha?ids ; Exit) 
Crav. {lookiitg after her) Ay, ay, young lady, you'll find 
Charley out one of these days, be certain ; and when she does 
she'll — she'll forgive him. He'll break her heart, but she'll try 
and mend it by herself without a murmur. Oh, woman, woman, 
should the time ever come when there shall be female juries in- 
stead of men, I pity those of the softer sex who may rely upon 
your clemency, but I'll swear that every 7nale scoundrel brought 
before you will escape scot-free. Exit. 

(Change) 

Scene III, — ''Lover's Leap" on the ''Duke's Drive" over- 
looking the Bakeiv ell-road, Derbyshire, a winding road j the 
stage runs across, showing at the back a sudden declivity, 
with another road, supposed to be below, whilst the back of 
the scene represents the other side of the mountainous land- 
scape. The idea supposed to be suggested by the scene is that 
of a dangerous road on the side of high rocks. Trees and 
brushwood at the edge of the road and painted on the opposite 
side past the road, and river running between. After a slight 
pause the Tramp is heard singing 

As we go rolling home, 

As we go rolling home, 

Happy is the {hiccup) that sees us. 

Sings as he enters, then passes his hand across his brow and 
appears to pull himself together. 

Iram. Here, here, hold hard a bit, old man, hold hard ! Phew ! 
curse these Derbyshire roads, they're as full of flints as a — as the 
heari of a union porter ; my feet are blistered and my head splits. 
I'd better have stopped at that fellow's house than have tried to 
reach Longnor to-night. I shall stop short at Fairfield and get a 
bed there, {shivers) There's a wind on these rocks that cuts a 
man through. Ha ! ha ! {with a half tipsy chuckle) got the 
rhino ail right though ! Let's see, what did I pay that — pay that 
— {sits on ledge of road and pulls out pocket-book in order to see 
notes by light of moon) Oh, a crown, I remember, and — {passes 
hajid over brow) I'll have no more drink to-night. Ha ! ha ! 
"cattle dealer " — that was a happy notion — (Charley comes on 
stealthily behiftd him) That was an uncommon happy notion, 
eh ? {to his old pocket-book) my old friend, who holds so many 
important documents, to say nothing of my portrait {conceitedly) 
when younger. Ha ! ha ! and the money which — (Charley 
grasps the^right hand in which he holds the purse and necker- 



DAISY FARM. 31 

chief suddenly ; the Tramp seems utterly overcome by the 
suddenness of the attack) W — wh — what's this — are you going 
to — going to rob me ? 

Char, [iji undertone, but with fierce determination) Don't 
raise your voice, or I'll fling you down those rocks as sure as 
you're a living man. 

Tram, {confused and alarmed) What — what — what do you 
mean t 

Char. I want that money, I 

Tram. Hold off— I 

Char, {graspifig hifn with even greater power) V\\ ha^fe \i — 
I'll have it, man. Don't resist. Some day — some day I may — 
Ha ! {as Tramp tries by a violent effort to fling him off, but 
gets thereby nearer the edge of the cliff) I tell you I must, and 
will. 

The Tramp, by a violent effort, almost disengages himself 
from the other s grasp, but by the violence of the attempt 
and resistance ^Charley he falls backwards down the 
rocks, with a wild cry , as he does so, clutching some 
shrubs, and a small tree, which burst from their earthen 
bed, and the noise of the stones and earth falling is dis- 
tinctly heard. Charley staggers back a moment horror 
stricken, but on perceiving the old pocket-book on the 
ground, seizes it. 

Char. I've got it— got it all ! {goes to edge of cliff, and leans 
over on one knee, the moon shining fully upon him) And— and 
not a living soul has seen the deed ! 

Goes to L., and e^ats, followed by Craven, who has entered 
down sloping rock in u. E. r., but who has not seen the 
attack. Music loud at Craven's exit. 

Act Drop— Quick. 



ACT III. 



Scene. — Daisy Farm. Same as Act T. Morning. George is 
standing finishing a mug of milk by table. Cribbage is 
taking away the loaf, &^c., off which he has been breakfasting. 
Music. 

Geo. {after his draught, drawing a lon^ breath) Theer ! 
Crib. Pretty good milk that, ain't it, Jarge"? 



32 DAISY FARM. 

Geo. Ay, it be so. If I warn't in love I could finish anotlier 
mug full. 

Crib. You in love. I pity the young woman. 

Geo. Ah, you're a 'ard 'arted gal, and always was. Tom 
Wild, the wheelwright, told me you was when I first come to the 
farm. 

Crib. Tom Wild was a stuck-up feller who spent half his time 
in 'ilin' his 'air and t'other half in partin' it. Never see such a 
lump o' conceit. Pretty 'air it was, too, after all the trouble he 
took. " It's what's called a warm /^tzz^burn," he says. "Oh, "I 
says " is it, indeed ! It's what I calls red 'ot carrots," says I ; 
and then he turned that scarlet with rage that you couldn't be 
certain where his forrid left off and his 'air begun. Don't come 
talking to me of your Tom Wildses. 

Geo. Law, I wish I could talk XxV^yoii, Cribbage. You're a 
downright dictionary for words. You pours 'em out like regler 
torrents. Where do you get your notions from ? 

Crib. Where do you get them red cheeks of your'n ? Come 
of theirselves, don't they ? 

Geo. Oh, father was a red 'un afore me, so was mother ; and 
grandfather, he was redder than any on us — regler old 'ouse a- 
fire, he was. He ! he ! Then there's sister Susan, and brother 
Robert, they're a'most as bad. I'm the palest of the lot, /am. 

Crib. Ah, it's well to be you, to be able to talk about fathers 
and mothers, and grandfathers, and brothers, and sisters. I 
never knew none of my relations. Never had none, as a body 
might say. 

Geo. You needn't be without relations — it's your own fault. 

Crib. However, I'd rather be alone. I'm my own missis. 

Geo. [getting close to her, L.) And mine too, ain't you. Crib ? 

Crib. Oh, don't come a cribbing me. 

Geo. Look here {wiping his mouth) — I arn't had one this 
marning. 

Crib, {surprised, standing back) One what ! 

Geo. [grinning sheepishly) He ! He ! He ! 

In the middle of his chuckling, Craven enters R. I. E. — 
George stifies his laughter, and looks idiotically con- 
fused. 
Crav. (R.) Cribbage, what color shall that silk dress be, eh ? 
Crib. Laws, Mr. Craven, I don't understand you. Exit, L. i E. 

George attempts to assume an air of ease, and leisurely 
saunters softly to the door, very U7icomfortable at 
Craven's ^rt^-^, which is fixed on him. As he gets to the 
door Craven calls — he abruptly pulls up. 

Crav. {seated, R.) Here— you. 



DAISY FARM. 33 

Qteo. My name ain't Hugh — it's Jarge. 

Crav. True. 

Geo. {aside.) Don't care about hem^ you'd at. 

Crav. Your name, you say, is 

Geo. Jarge William Warriner — that's my name. 

Crav. [stroking his chin rejiectively, ^//«^ George; slowly) 
George William Warriner ! 

Geo. " A Englishman, and not a Foreigner." Grandfather 
made that rhyme the time of Bonyparty's " goings on." 

Crav. Your grandfather's facts were, no doubt, undeniable — 
his metre was faulty. You were at Dobson's public-house last 
night ? 

Geo. Yes, sent there by Missis, with a letter. 

Crav. With a letter — yes —for Mr. Burridge ? 

Geo. Master Charley — yes. 

Crav. Past ten when you got there ? 

Geo. {beginnimr to move about u?teasily) Ye — es — that is — I 
think 

Crav. Don't think. Be sure. 

Geo. {wipi7ig his forehead, aside) What's up now ? 

Crav. Did you observe the time ? 

Geo. What time ? 

Crav. Time you were there. 

Geo. I was there about five minit. 

Crav. Did you observe what time he left ? 

Geo. No, I went afore him. 

Crav. Did he seem agitated when he read the letter ? Did 
he say anything ? 

Geo. Yes. 

Crav. What ? 

Geo. " Give him a pint o'ale," he says, meaning me. 

Crav. Nothing more .'' 

Geo. Couldn't ha' drunk more ; had to get home. 

Crav. Do you know what time he came home last night .'' 

Geo. No, nor no one else. 

Crav. Why .? 

Geo. 'Cause he never came 'ome at all. 

Crav. Oh, thank you, George — your replies have been most 
intelligent. Here's a half-crown to drink my health with. 

Geo. Thankee, sir. (going) I've got a half-crown out of him, 
but he ain't got nothing out of Jarge. Exit, L. C. 

Crav. If an Old Bailey witness was a profession, my bucolic 
friend would certainly distinguish himself therein, (crosses, L.) 
Not been home all night. 

Enter Andrew, l. C; his face is pale and careworn, and 
bears a striking contrast to its cheerful aspect at the com- 
mencement of the piece. 



34 DAISY FARM. 

Crav. (L.) Well, Armstrong, have you seen to that? 

And. (C.) Yes, Mr. Craven ; yes, sir. I can never sufficiently 
thank you for your sympathy and honest help to me at this sad 
time. You're a true man, sir {^grasping his hand). I knew 
you w^as from the tirst, and it's been a big relief to me to have 
such a one to turn to in my sorrow, {turns aside, a?td by an 
effort masters his emotio7i ; crosses to /ire, R.) 

Crav. Say no more about that. I hate to be thanked if I do a 
kind and friendly act at times. I've done so many bad ones that 
it's only like striking a balance, and {sighing) the per contra 
gets the best of it, I'm afraid. You still adhere to your resolu- 
tion to go ? 

And. How can I stop here } I could never look at her with- 
out feeling my own meanness. I have no right here. 

Crav. You mean she has no right here. The farm's yours — 
let's be logical. 

And. My love's too deep for logic, sir ; everything I have is 
hers — might have been years, years ago, but for the shadow that 
crept between us and darkened my life for, — oh, so long. It 
wasn't that she married some one else. Had she become the 
wife of one who would have cared for her and treated her well, 
I'd have been content to have stayed here and watch without 
bitterness the happiness that I had missed. But, sir, when I see 
her drooping day by day, when I see her faithful, true, and 
honest to the man who cared nothing for the woman at his side, 
I couldn't stay, Mr. Craven. I should have gone mad if I'd 
stayed. I went away, and good fortune smiled upon everything 
I undertook, and when I came back, better off than I'd ever 
hoped to be, she was alone, and I brought her here to Daisy 
Farm to be its mistress, and the roses came back to her face, 
and the old smile and the old cheerful spirit — and now — now — 
{crosses, L., breaks dowii) Oh, this blow is too bitter to be borne ! 
{sinks into chair, L., his face in his hands) 

Crav. (r. C, after passing his hands across his eyes) My 
dear Armstrong, you won't imagine because I show no emotion 
that I feel no sympathy. (Andrew turns) I feel for you deeply, 
but you've asked me to arrange many things for you and if I've 
tears in my eyes I shan't be able to see to do them. (ANDREW 
silently grasps his hand ; aside, R.) This scarcely comes up to 
the requirements of my advertisement — " Wanted, cheerful 
apartments at a farm-house." {sits L. of R. table) Mark Tapley 
would have been remarkably jolly here. 

And. I have a brother in America, a wildish fellow, who has 
caused me many a heart-ache {crossing to Craven), and it must 
appear to her as if he had got into some desperate fix or other, 
and no one but me could get him clear. This will account — 
must account, in fact, for my going away, and when I am gone 



DAISY FARM. 5$ 

— you — you — it's too much to expect of you, sir, and you've 
known us so short a time — who — who else can I ask — who can I 
confide in ? 

Crav. I'll lie through thick and thin for you, my friend, and 
though eveHtually I shall be looked on by Mrs. Armstrong as a 
villain of the deepest dye, I'll bear it. 

And. She's coming — how I know her footstep ! [imploringly) 
Do your best to help me — do your best, {goes out at back, but 
lingers by the door) 

Crav. This is my invariable luck. Because I'm a quiet sort 
of fellow I continually find myself the centre of a regular ex- 
plosive circle, like the little bit of wood in the Catherine wheel. 

Enter Bridget, l. i e. 

Craven, I'm so glad to see you. I've been— 

Crav. {puts her gently into chair, R. c, and sits beside her, 
L.) You've been crying — you're cut up at your husband's 
strange manner. You don't wish to bother him, and you'd like 
me to explain a bit. 

Brid. Oh, if you would 

Crav. It is unfortunate, Mrs. Armstrong, that we can't all be 
" only children " — it would do away with that excessively dis- 
agreeable excrescence — the British Brother. He's a bore in 
every way. If he's older than you he takes your money — if 
younger, he borrows it. I was heavily afflicted with brothers 
myself. They Tiave all disgraced themselves, and they are all 
alive. / am the only respectable member of the family, and 
each brother passes himself off as me on every possible occasion. 

Brid. You always make one forget one's griefs, Mr. Craven ; 
still you know 

Crav. Now don't grieve. It doesn't pay. At this moment I 
am in exceedingly bad health. I am mixed up with a family row 
which will ruin some of my dearest relations ; I am restricted to 
three cigars a day when I have smoked my diurnal dozen for 
sixteen years ; and I'm enveloped in a sound, washable, good 
wearing, warranted-not-to-shrink Chancery suit that'll last me 
my life. But I don i grieve, {crosses to chair, R.) Your hus- 
band unfortunately possesses a brother. 

Brid. Robert. Oh, don't mention hijn. He has been a cruel 
drag upon poor Andrew, and has caused him many a wretched 
hour, many a sleepless night. 

Crav. Just so. It is the fraternal nature so to do. Now Robert 
Armstrong, after all, is your husband's brother, and — well — you 
know, the voyage to America now-a-days is nothing at all — 
actually nothing — a pleasure trip. 

Brid. {rising, alarmed) Voyage to America ! {sits) 



36 DAISY FARM. 

Crav. A nine days' wonder — nothing more — you go on board, 
and by the time you've read your newspaper, had a chat with 
the Captain, seen your luggage all correct, had a glass or two of 
grog, picked up an acquaintance or so, pulled yourself together, 
and paid the steward, you're there. 

Brid. Voyage to America ! 

Crav. New York — next door — over the way — round the corner 
— why, why, my dear Mrs. Armstrong, I know people who think 
no more of going to America than they do of driving into the 
city or going to Greenwich for a fish dinner. 

Brid. But — but you cannot mean that Andrew thinks of cross- 
ing the ocean. The terrible Atlantic where so many — many — 
oh ! {sinks into chair again) 

Crav. Bah ! not half so dangerous as crossing Fleet Street, 
and ever so much more pleasant. The boats are floating pal- 
aces, and at this time of the year the sea's as smooth as a bald 
head. The diet is unlimited, the motion almost imperceptible, 
the vessel replete with every comfort, and carries an experienced 
surgeon. He'll soon be back — only a matter of a month or two. 

Brid. {rising and crossi7ig to hi?n) A month or two, Mr. Cra- 
ven — you don't know how many months — how many years An- 
drew and I have been apart, [crossing, L.) 

Crav. Now look at the matter in the right light — your hus- 
band wants to save his brother's — his own — your name — from 
disgrace ; he can only do so by going over himself, and arrang- 
ing the unpleasant business with Robert's principals. 

Brid. [half sobbing) He never had any principles. 

Crav. His employers. You shouldn't baulk so generous a re- 
solve on his part — you 

Brid. {turning suddenly to him) You say truly, Mr. Craven. 
Andrew's good name is dear to me, and I must not allow selfish 
considerations to stand in the way of what is right and brotherly. 
I should have known better, but his strange, wild, changed man- 
ner alarmed me. Of course he is wiser than /am, and if he says 
he must go, of course he must, {sinks into chair, L.) 

Crav. There, I knew your sound common sense would come 
to the rescue. It's natural after all — the announcement being so 
sudden — that you — yes, yes — just so, of course, {aside) This is 
glorious ; he'll get off with comparative ease. I think I've 
smoothed the way rather well. 

Brid. {in chair, dreamily) Yes, Andrew was always a kind, 
good, noble fellow; and if it will ease his mind to see his brother 
and set all right, he shall go to America without one word 
from me to keep him back. 

Crav. Just so — highly sensible. 

Brid. {slowly, and with deter 7nination) But /'// go with 
him. 



DAISY FARM. yj 

Crav. Oh ! {utterly staggered j sits) 

Brid. I am terribly afraid of the sea, it is true. 

Crav. {rises, crosses to her) And with good cause, my dear 
Mrs. Armstrong, — the sea's a treacherous, smooth-faced scoun- 
drel, with a temper there's no trusting — a duck-pond one mo- 
ment, a maelstrom the next. Look at the list of disasters in a 
single month, and don't dream of venturing upon it. 

Brid. I never have done so yet. 

Crav. {quickly) Then it would be simple madness. The ef- 
fects of a first sea voyage are something indescribable — a sort of 
compound of severe biliousness, softening of the brain, nervous 
exhaustion and the horrors. Now your husband has been abroad 
— crossed the ocean twice, and liked it. 

Brid. It was only to Ireland. 

Crav. Just so ; but then it is notorious that that voyage, 
though comparatively short, is detestable. You have just time 
enough to get ill, and when you get well the land gets all the 
credit for bringing you round. If he stood that he'll laugh at 
the Atlantic. 

Brid. Then I shall laugh with him, Mr. Craven, {^rises) 
Andrew shall not go so far away across the seas without his wife 
by his side — her proper place. I can speak freely to you, as we 
both do, and I own I could not let him leave me alone here. 
He has never done so for a single day since our marriage, and I 
could not bear that he should go, leaving me here with the bitter 
memories of a bygone time alone for company, {goes to him) I 
dare not be left here by myself, Mr. Craven ; such wild thoughts 
enter my head sometimes that I fear I am almost going mad ; 
but one word from Andrew in his kind and reassuring voice 
seems to restore me to my old self at once. Ah, Mr. Craven, no 
woman does a true, good man the wrong I did my husband 
without suffering for it, as I suffer for it sometimes, even when I 
seem most cheerful and content. 

Crav. She's just as good as taken her passage. 

Andrew re-appears at door, L. C. half comi7ig on. 

And. I wonder if he's broke it to her ? 

Brid. I'll get neighbor Radcliffe to look after the farm for 
awhile — he'll do so willingly, and Cribbage would die rather 
than desert her post. She will make it as comfortable for yoti, 
Mr. Craven, as we have tried to do, and she is a favorite of 
yours, you know. 

Crav. Oh, don't consider me. I'm a citizen of the world, I 
can start for anywhere in general, and nowhere in particular at 
ten minutes' notice, any time. / don't remember myself with 
luggage. I travelled through Europe with what was on my back 
and nothing more. I left collars in every town in France and 



38 DAISY FARM. 

Belgium — a detective might have traced me by them just as the 
boys play hare and hounds with little bits of paper. 

And. {adva7icing^ C.) Well, Bridget darling, has our kind 
friend broke the sad news ? 

Brid. Andrew, your griefs, are mine, and we will go together, 
and see to poor Robert's safety. 

And. {in broketi voice) No, darling — that cannot be — the task 
must be mine alone — you — you must not go with me. {turns 
aside.) 

Brid. (surprised and shocked) Not — not go with you, Andrew } 

And. No, no, dear — the business is one that — that you could 
not assist me in — and Robert lives far away from the big cities, 
and I shall have to take long journeys mayhap, and rough ones, 
too, before I find his home ; and when 1 do I shall have much 
to settle and arrange, dear, and what — what is it, Bridget, 
dear one, — what — (Bridget has grown faint during this speech, 
and now sinks upon chair almost insensible) What — {turning 
to Craven) what shall I do ? 

Crav. {aside, to him) ^^firin. She must be argued and per- 
suaded out of her determination to go with you, iox every reason. 

And. But I cannot leave her ill, and this separation will kill 
her. {goes up, c. and theti down to fire, R., and sits.) 

Crav. {aside) Separation will kill her ! The self-conceit of 
these husbands. It's only we bachelors who really know what 
modesty means, {crosses to her) Now, my dear Mrs. Armstrong, 
let me beg of you not to give way. Everything shall be done 
for the best, believe me. 

Brid. {at table) But it is not for the best to part Andrew and 
me. There can be no reason why I should thus be separated, 
even for a time, from him. I wish to share any perils by land 
or sea that may await him. It is only right I should do so. It 
is cruel of you to abet him in this resolution. 

Crav. {aside) I feel every inch a co-respondent, {goes up C. 
with Bridget.) 

Enter Cribbage, L. I E., with pail, which she places by 
side of dresser, L. 

And. {rises, advances, C.) Here, lass, I wish to speak to you. 

Crib. What have I been a doin' now f 

And. {in undertone) A —a great misfortune has befallen me, 
and I shall have to leave Daisy Farm for a while. I've alw^ays 
trusted you from the first day you came here. You've been a 
real help and comfort to us, my lass, and I'm go\x\%— {broken 
voice)— Vm going to — to leave her in your charge. You know 
what I mean by that— watch over her— cheer her with a merry 
song or bit of gossip when she's downhearted — keep all annoy- 
ance from her — make her lonely life as happy as it can be when 



DAISY FARM, 39 

I'm — I'm away, {turns aside ; he has held Cribbage's hand 
in his and spoken the latter part of the speech looking straight 
into her face.) 

Crib, {in low tone, but with intensity) But, master, you're 
— you're not going away for long, {sees his pained look, and 
with a sudden tone of horror, but still in a low voice) Not — not 
{ox good ! — oh ! {turns aside, hardly able to contaifi her sur- 
prise and grief . A'ii'D'R¥yf grasps her hand to ettjoin silence.) 

And. Hush, woman, I hardly know — it will depend — anyhow, 
you will do what I ask you. 

Crib, {mastering her agitation) Yes, master, I will. Truth- 
ful and true, whilst I've a breath in my body. — If such service as 
money can't purchase, and such devotion as only kindness can, 
can save my dear mistress a single tear, or one moment's un- 
happiness. they're ^^r'j-, master, her'swo^N more than ever. 

And. Heaven bless you, my dear. When I picked you out 
from amongst your motherless companions, says I, that face'U 
suit me. I'll trust those eyes, I says, and I was right, my dear, 
I was right. 

Crav. {to Bridget, coming down l.) Well, I can't put the 
case in a stronger light than I have done. 

Brid. No, you cannot. 

Crav. {aside, to Andrew) I've exhausted every argument, but 
when once a woman has taken a notion, attempting to persuade her 
out of it is like pulling away at a hook in a fish — it makes it stick 
the faster. (Enter Kate, down C.) Now, here's another recruit 
in our service. Miss Cole, I appeal to you. Here's Mr. Arms- 
trong finds it necessary to go abroad for a short time — at least, 
not abroad — only to America. 

Kate. America ! 

Crib, (l., aside) Don't call " Merriker " abroad! Then p'raps 
he don't call Merricans foreigners. Exit, L. I. E. 

Crav. No distance, you know — for a 7nan j of course for a 
woman 

Kate. Why the difference ? 

Crav. Well, you know, woman's proper place is her home. 

Kate. Just so ; that's wherever her husband is. 

Brid. You're right, Kate dear. 

Crav. But surely if you had a husband you wouldn't insist 
upon going about with him everywhere. Look how ridiculous 
it would make him look. 

Kate. Ah, I wouldn't mind that — if anyone's to be made look 
ridiculous I'd rather it should be he than /. 

Crav. But if unpleasant business took him to New York for a 
month or so, you don't mean to say that 

Kate. That I'd go with him — certainly. 

Crav. If you were actually in his way ? {both retire up C.) 



40 DAISY FARM. 

Brid. Andrew, say, dear, {crossing, R.) Is it alone the danger 
of the voyage and the rough travelling that induce you to per- 
suade me thus ? You have no other motive but my comfort in 
refusing to take me w^ith you — have you ? 

And. [unable to contain himself) Yes, Bridget, yes, I have 
another motive — a powerful and terrible one that compels me to 
go alone. I cannot tell you more at present. I — (Craven, c. 
and Kate, l. c, advance C. a little j breaks down as Bridget 
eyes him with a hurt look.) 

Brid. [goes to door, R. I. E., before she speaks) It is the first 
secret, Andrew, between wj y may it — oh, may it be the last, 
{turns aside, evidently greatly vexed. Exit, R. D., with in- 
dignant look at Craven, Y^kty. following. Andrew crosses to 
fire.) 

Cole, {outside) Pretty swindling ! the robbers — the scoundrels ! 

Crav. Cole's voice ! For once in his life that most unpleasant 
person is actually a relief, {.crosses to L.) 

Cole, (entering in a rage, L. c, back) Well, well, well, this 
is very pretty. 

Crav. What's the matter, Mr. Cole ? 

Cole. What's the matter, what's the matter ? but you're a 
lucky man — you're a lucky man. {futs down hat on chair, c. at 
back.) 

Crav. In what way ? (sits.) 

Cole. You hadn't a penny in Pembridge's Bank, I'll be bound. 
You've got yours at an army agent's, or at a snug private bank 
in London, or invested in something as safe as houses — not 
country banking houses — they're not safe. If I come across old 
Jonas Pembridge I'll — I'll call him names, {up and down, C.) 

And. Has Pembridge's Bank gone, then ? 

Cole. Gone ! Why did it ever come ? Ha, but it'll go hard 
with them, swaggering about in their grand carriages and in 
their big houses, and — oh, these robbers don't get off scot-free as 
they used to do. [chafes^ 

Crav. {seated at table, L.) Had you anything in Pembridge's ? 

And. (in chair, r., at fire) I drew all I had out for I heard 
the rumor of coming failure, and I was just in time. 

Crav. I hope you hadn't much in there, Cole. 

Cole, (c.) More than enough to make a man mad when he 
loses it. Every shilling of it scraped aiid starved for. I was 
always such a careful man. 

Crav. Ah, some folks can be too careful. It's the dainty 
people who keep their eyes on the crossing for fear of mudding 
their boots that get run over by the hansom cabs j after all, your 
life's of more importance than your upper leather. 

Cole. (C.) Very likely, sir ; but why not preserve both, sir ? — ■ 



DAISY FARM, 4I 

that's my argument. But the Pembridges '11 find a ticklish 
creditor in Simeon Cole, 

And, {seated) I told you of the report I heard ; you might 
have saved every farthing. 

Cole, {at back, corner of table) And this very day — this very 
day I was going to complete a bargain that'll bring me hundreds, 
I won't say thousands, though I might. I've nicked old Thred- 
der, and I'd have paid the deposit down before he reached 
Willott's, He offered more than me, but the sight of the bank 
notes would have done the business, for Willott's hard up, and 
at his wits' end for want of money. 

And, What, Squire Willott of 

Cole. Of Radcliffe — that's the man — selling a portion of the 
estate dirt cheap — dirt cheap. He doesn't know that the 
Midland Railway's going to run through it, and they'll have to 
pay a pretty penny for the privilege. But he will know it to- 
morrow, or the day after. I've seen the plans at Duncan's 
offices. Ha ! ha ! and I had as good as £6,000 in my pocket if 
this — this vile establishment of Pembridge's hadn't — hadn't — but 
I'll nick old Thredder yet. 

And. {rising) How .'' 

Cole. How ! Ha ! ha ! Look there ! [producing a promissory 
note fro?n his breast pocket) look there, dear Andrew Arm- 
strong, look there — " payable on demand." Ha ! ha ! you can 
help an old friend and schoolfellow ; and, oh, how delighted 
you'll be to do it. 

And. What do you mean ? 

Cole. You know what I mean, my dear old friend — you know ; 
I've got you under my thumb — you know you raised money on 
mortgage — you know you've given me bills, and that they'll have 
to be met when due, and you know that bit of paper means 
money down. But you've got it handy — you've got it handy. 

And. I ! — got that — that money handy ! 

Cole. Of course — you were so full of forethought, you know — • 
you drew what you had in Pembridge's out, you say, and have 
it here. 

And. {a little staggered) W — what ! 

Cole. Bless us, how dull this man is ! The money — out of the 
bank — it'll just help me to my bargain. Ha ! ha ! now for it, 
old friend, {nervously opening and shuttitig his hatids.) 

And. Simeon Cole — I — I haven't ^^/ the money. 

Cole. Then you lied, eh ? 

And. No, {rises) I had it when I mentioned it to you, but it's 
gone since. 

Cole, [fiercely) But you must get it back, sir. 

And. Impossible ! You cannot have one shilling of that 
money, now. 



42 DAISY FARM. 

Cole. Why— you — you impostor — you dishonest impostor, 

I 

And. Better words, or VW.— {shakes fist at him.) 

Cole. Don't raise your finger against me. I'll ruin you — I'll 

sell you up. 

Enter Bridget and Kate, r. d. 

Brid. What is the matter, Andrew ? is Simeon Cole persuad- 
ing you against going abroad ? 

Cole. Going abroad ? 

Brid. To America, at once. 

Cole. Oh, indeed ! a runaway ! a fraudulent bankrupt, eh ! 
(Andrew again turns upon him, but restraijts himself by a 
violent effort.) 

Enter Charley, l. C. ; he looks haggard and pale. 

Brid. What does this mean, Simeon } 

Cole. What does it mean } It means that I've been tricked 
and swindled. I don't forget those days of long ago, Bridget 
Armstrong. Though you've kept civil tongues I've seen the 
sneer on your lip many a time. Now my turn's come, and that 
turn will be " turn out'' Andrew, my dear friend, who thrashed 
Simeon Cole behind Digby's barn. Ha \ ha ! (j-<?mz^ Charley) 
Oh, you're there, are you ? 

Char, {advancing C.) Yes, I am, and if you were not Kate's 
uncle, and more than twice my age, I'd rub the recollection of 
that thrashing out of your back with another that you'd never 
forget to your dying day. 

Brid. Oh, Charley ! 

Crav. {aside) That's the first time I've heard him speak like a 
man. He wouldn't hear his mother bullied. Good ! There's a 
ray of hope, if it's only a trifling one {goes up.) 

Char. (C, L. £?/Cole) What is it you threaten ? 

Cole. (R. C.) Bankruptcy ! Disgrace ! Ruin ! Your stepfather 
here told me he had money to keep me to my bargain. I'd 
rather die than lose the chance, but he's deceived me, and I'll — 
oh — {crossing, L. corner.) 

And. (R. C, aside to CHARLEY) I'm in his power, and my 
hands are tied. He'll do all he threatens, and more ; and when 
I am away, your mother — {grasps Charley's hand and rests 
his head on his shoulder.) 

Char, {with intensity, to Cole) What is it you want, now 
down ? 

Cole. Pah ! ;^4oo ! 

Char, {^fiercely) Then make out your receipt, or hand over 
your promissory note, or whatever it is. For once in my life / 
have some money. 



DAISY FARM. 43 

And. You, Charley ! 

Crav. {aside) IVhafs \.h?L\.\ 

Char. Oh, don't be surprised. You've noticed my depression 
of late ; it was anxiety about a horse I'd bet heavily upon, but 
it's turned up a prize, and I've pulled off a lump of money. I've 
got it here, Mr. Simeon Cole, and you shall make your rogue's 
bargain and be happy, {puts hand in side pocket and brijigs 
out pocket-book he has taken from the Tramp — tre?nbli?igly 
takes out notes, i?i great agitation, btit endeavors with great 
effort to conceal it.) 

Brid. {to Andrew, proud/j') There, there, Andrew. I knew 
Charley's noble nature. 

And. (aside, to Charley) My dear boy, this is wrong. I feel 
it is. Don't letyour luck tempt you again. But for your mother's 
sake — {taking money, crosses him to c.) 

Char. Yes, yes. 

Cole, {hardly able to restrain himself frojn comitig forward 
a7id seizing the notes) Good boy! good, generous, noble boy I 
but you'll find your reward so7ne day. Ha ! ha ! {takes a note 
which Charley has handed to Andrew, who passes it to Cole 
almost mechanically. Bridget, her face lighted up with hap- 
piness, is standing by Kate, holding both hands in hers — not 
watching the action of the others) 

Crav. {aside, up L.) That young man's lying, {down by him) 
At what races did your winning horse run recently .'' 

Char, {confused) At — at the Bedford Races. 

Crav. {aside) Don't come off till next week. I knew it. 

And. {in a low breathless tone) What's tiiis } — what's this 
note ? 

Cole, {taking it) Oh, it's all right, only it's been cut in half, 
and gummed crooked. 

And. {almost dazed) Where — why — no, no, — that one, too, 
with the red stain upon it. 

Cole, {takes it eagerly and the others out of Andrew's hand) 
I can drive there in an hour, and the land's mine. 

And. {in the greatest agitation to Charley, in low voice) 
Charley, you — you never came by that money honestly ! 

Char, {looking up for a moment) What ! (drops his eyes under 
the gaze of Andrew, who slightly staggers back in distnay and 
grief) 

And. You were away last night ; and desperate as you have 
been for days — and {in a tone of horror and severity) you ob- 
tained that money from a man who 

Char, {in an agony of fear) Spare me ! spare me ! 

Andrew shrinks back with a wail of grief. Charley 
falls with his face on the table, hiding it. BRIDGET 



DAISY FARM. 

comes forward as if to speak to Charley, but Andrew 
puts her from him ; she looks wonderingly at ANDREW. 
Cole is greedily counting notes, Kate moves atixiously 
towards Charley, Craven up. Music swells. 

Act Drop. 



ACT IV. 

Scene. — The oak parlor at Daisy Farm. Cojnforfable chafn-- 
ber. Doors K. and I.. K^Tt^Y^N leaning agaijist shelf at fir e- 
place^ R. Bridget seated at table, l. Music to take up cur- 
tain. 

And. I tell you, Bridg-et, the girl must never marry him. You 
don't know what that young man has done ; he must go away at 
once. 

Brid. How hard you seem upon him, Andrew, and how 
changed in every way. What can have thus estranged us ? I 
wonder if I shall ever learn what this dreadful secret is. You 
speak of leaving me, and now you would part me from my boy ; 
you never liked him — but I suppose that's only natural. 

And. That's unworthy of you, Bridget ; and you know it. 
I've tried to magnify any good qualities the lad may possess, for 
his mother's sake, and a mighty deal of trouble I've had to find 
'em out. I've toned down his many vicious — ay, vicious — ones, 
— that's the word — in the hope he might improve. But it's all 
been labor in vain. 

Brid. And this after his sacrifice for our sake ! 

And. He gave away money that wasn't his j he {stops 

awkwardly) 

Brid. Of course everything he does is wrong in his stepfather's 
eyes. 

Enter Charley, with Kate, r.d.f. 

Kate. I think it's cruel of you not to tell me when you're com- 
ing back. 

Char. How can I say ? 

And. {to him) Ah, how indeed ! Your luggage is ready, I 
hope. 

Char, [aside to hitn') Yes ; but, for the fiftieth time, your sus- 
picions are cruel and absurd. You have no proof to warrant 
your sort ot half accusation. 

And. {with a sigh, turning away) No, no ; none. 

Craven speaks outside. 



DAISY FARM. 45 

Brid. Here's that Mr. Craven. How I hate him. It's only 
since he came that all this misery commenced, {aside) But I'll 
find out what all this really means before the day is out. They 
have no right to keep me in this cruel state of doubt and fear. 
I'll not sleep until I've found it out. 

Crav. (entering, R. i E.) Both here. I'll strike while the iron's 
hot. 

And. Some day the clouds may vanish, and you'll see my con- 
duct in a clearer light, and wish you hadn't blamed me and 
hadn't doubted my love, Bridget, my poor wife. 

Brid. I'm not a poor wife. I was a very happy wife, till — till 
— {at Craven) certain people came and helped to separate us. 

And. Bridget, I will not hear one word said against that kind 
friend who has helped me so truly and so well at a most sad and 
trying time. 

Brid. Oh, I have no wish to breathe one syllable against so 
generous an interferer in other people's affairs, {aside) But I'll 
find out what it all means, be sure of that. (Exit, R. i E.) 

And. {to Craven) You see how I am placed — what can I do } 

Crav. Why, you can go and try to soothe your wife, while I 
bring these young people to their senses. If you want to concil- 
iate her, join her in pitching into me — I don't mind it. 

And. She'd never believe me in earnest there, sir, never. She 
must never thiiik of marrying him. 

Crav. No, I'd marry her myself X2i\\\^x ! 

And. {to Craven, his hatid on his shoulder) This is the an- 
niversary of our wedding day, Mr. Craven ; I had looked for- 
ward to it with feelings of happiness^ but now — now 

Crav. If you're not going to bear up like a man, /shall leave 
you to your fate. 

And. You're right, sir, you're right ! {shakes hands and 
exit, after lookitig at Charley. Kate, r., seated, looking 
piqued) 

Crav. {aside, after tuatchiftg them) They don't seem alto- 
gether carried away by their affection. 

Char, {rising, going up) I'll go and see if that fellow's got the 
gig ready. 

Crav. Here — wait a bit — oblige me ! (Charley looks at him 
with a sort of sneer, but winces under Craven's eye) Sit down 
a moment or two. I want a word or so with you two. (Char- 
ley shrugs his shoulders a7id sits L. ^ R. table) 

Kate, {sits R. of '^. table ; aside) I don't know how it is, but 
Charley always seems shorter when Mr. Craven talks to him. 

Char. Well, what do you want ? 

Crav. I want you to listen to reason. 

Char. Ah, that means /^/^, I suppose. 

Crav. I hope so. 



46 DAISY FARM. 

Kate. I'm quite prepared to listen, Mr. Craven. 

Char. Oh, you were always ready to listen to anything or any- 
body. 

Crav. Yes, but she doesn't intend doing so again. 

Char. What do you mean ? 

Crav. Well now, in the first place, you two are engaged. 

Char. Well, as to that 

Kate. Why, you know we are, Charley — have been for ages ! 

Crav. {aside) Ages ! the Methusalehs ! 

Char. Well, certainly, some time back, before I knew my own 
mind. 

Crav. A decided case of ignorance is bliss — a blissful state of 
ignorance {or yoi4. 

Char. We made a sort of boy and girl engagement. 

Kate. Charley, you know it was a regular grown-up one. 
But, really, in the presence of a third party {rises) 

Crav. Now ^c? sit still, {she sits) Do you really think it would 
be advisable to continue the affair ? Consider ycjr ages. 

Kate. The same within a few months. What could be better ? 

Crav. The same within a few years. A girl of twenty's a 
woman — a lad of twenty's a boy — you wouldn't care to marry a 
boy, 

Kate. No, but wait, say, ten years or so. 

Crav. Which no woman cares to do, as a rule. 

Kate. Well, say as an exception — that makes one 

Crav. Thirty, and an old maid. 

Kate. Well. 

Crav. Then, the young man of thirty 

Kate. Yes. 

Crav. Prefers the young lady of twenty — invariably. 

Kate, {rising, indignantly) Then he ought to be ashamed of 
himself Charles — Mr. Burridge, — I shall be going home short- 
ly ; if you care to say good-bye I shall be with Mr, Armstrong, 
{going, aside) I'm not quite sure whether I detest that Mr. 
Craven or like him awfully. (Exit, R. i E.) 

Char. What do you take me for ? 

Crav. For an unscrupulous young man, who, from the force 
of circumstances, to say nothing of natural inclination, would 
commit any meanness, to use a mild term, for ready cash. 

Char. Mr. Craven, — you — you are a strange man, 

Crav. Yes, and I take strange fancies into my head. You were 
out last night. 

Char. Extraordinary fact ! 

Crav. So was I, 

Char. Remarkable coincidence ! 

Crav. Yes, but oddly enough we both chose the same 
walk. 



DAISY FARM. 47 

Char. Eh ! {alarmed) 

Crav. And the same time, or nearly. I've a fancy for late 
walks ; they make me sleep ; and I've a fancy for the " Duke's 
Drive " 

Char. What ! 

Crav. What's the matter ? It's a public road, isn't it ? Deuced 
dangerous along the side of those cliffs, though — unless, of course, 
it's a moonlight night, as it was last night, so that one could see 
everything distinctly. 

Char, {after pause) Y^s. [aside) What's the meaning of this ? 
He would have interfered had he been there ! {to Craven) I know 
the " Duke's Drive " very well, but it so happens I was not near 
it last night — not anywhere near it. 

Crav. Ha ! then it was my mistake. Because as I was strolling 
leisurely along there late in the evening, I saw a figure which so 
closely resembled you that I made up my jnijtd as to its 
identity. 

Char. Ah, for once, then, your eyes deceived you. {rises) 

Crav. Evidently. But it was exceedingly remarkable that I 
should have seen you in the afternoon with this stick, which I 
picked up on the edge of " Lover's Leap " just after the figure 
resembling you pursued its way. {business) 

Charley is so overcome at this that he cannot speak for a, 
7noment. After a pause he clutches Craven's arm, and 
in a hoarse whisper speaks. 

Char. I was there ! But, Mr. Craven, don't rush too readily to 
conclusions — you — you don't know all. 

Crav. {throwing him off) I did7it\ but I think I do now .' 

Char. I was desperate — 7nad almost, and 

Crav, Of course ! People don't do these things in cold blood. 
Now, enough misery hangs over Daisy Farm already. You 
must clear out — you must give up Kate. 

Char. But 

Crav. But nothing. Do you see that cheque ? That goes to 
Dr. Graham by this night's post if you do what I tell you. {gets 
to top of I., table) 

Char, {indignantly) But I object to this commanding way of 
yours ; I {crosses to L.) 

Crav. {severely) Charles Burridge, you robbed, even if you 
did not murder a man last night, and those notes you handed to 
Andrew Armstrong were torn from that man in a deadly struggle 
which I overheard — and you can't deny it. (Enter Bridget, r. 
D.) Besides your stick, here is a picture, a portrait, evidently 
dropped by him in the struggle. I picked them both up, and 
mark my words, you mad young fool, if you refuse the mercy I 



48 DAISY FARM. 

offer you you'll find yourself in Derby Castle before the day's out, 
and in a felon's dock before a week. 

Bridget, who has been listeningin horror to this, has seen 
the portrait, and now with a shriek, sitiks into chair. 
Enter ANDREW rt^rt' Cribbage, r. i e. 

And. Bridget, my love, my darling, what is this ? 

Crib, {crosses to her,) Missis, dear missis ! for goodness' salce 
don't look so wild and strange ! What is it, missis ? 

Brid. Wild and strange — wild and strange ! Oh, Andrew 
Armstrong, do you see that face ? 

And. {takes portrait j aside) Yes, as I feared — as I dreaded, 
Bridget, dear wife ! 

Brid. {wildly) Where is he ? How did it come here ? Where 
am I ? It's his likeness, and I haven't set eyes on it for years. 
Oh, Andrew, I have heard Mr. Craven say such dreadful things. 
He accused Charley of — oh, I cannot repeat the dreadful words I 
thought I heard. 

Crav. You evidently partially overheard some utterly founda- 
tionless nonsense, I was trying upon Charley here an experi- 
ment to test his nerve. Had I known you were playing the 
eavesdropper I should certainly not have made those highly 
ridiculous remarks, {aside) And that's true, I'll take my oath. 
{crosses down to L.) 

And. For a downright ^<7<?^ man, what a liar he is ! 

Brid. It is time to play the eavesdropper, Mr. Craven, when 
one finds another person, cleverer and more experienced in the 
world's ways, playing the traitor. 

And. Bridget, dearest ! 

Crav. {aside) Now I am a traitor. 

Brid. {to Andrew) Andrew, I begin now to have some suspi- 
cion of the cause of all this sudden trouble. You cannot look me 
in the face. This picture — the agitation you were in after the 
visit of some strange man yesterday — you have heard some bad 
— some terrible news. (Andrew turns) Ah, you turn away — 
there is no one here who may not know all, and I demand an 
explanation, Andrew Armstrong ! If you refuse I shall know my 
course, {with great determinatioji) 

Crib. Missis, dear missis, have patience — you mayn't know all 
the trouble master suffers — you mayn't know what reasons 

Brid. Reasons ! you are leagued against me, too. 

Char. Enough of all this mystery and wretchedness. I know 
well I am the cause of it all. I can't live any longer under this 
horrible sense of shame and misery. If I don't speak out now I 
shall do so when it is too late, and I can't bear this state of things 
any longer. 

And. No, no, come away, darling, come away. 



DAISY FARM. 49 

Brid. No, I will not. Why should I not listen to what Charley 
has to say to his mother ? {^proudly') It will be nothing that she 
need be ashamed of, I know quite well. 

Crav. Now, my dear Mistress Armstrong, do go and lie down 
or something — your nerves are overstrung. Now, pray take my 
advice ; remember, I was going to be a doctor, only 

Brid. [with womanly malevoleiice) Only you couldn't pass 
the examination. 

Crav. Just so. {aside) I lost myself amongst the muscles, they're 
very confusing — a sort of anatomical Clapham Junction. 

Char. I've been unlucky. I fell into bad company, which was 
none of my seeking, and I got into a money scrape which was a 
trifling matter at hrst, but which grew and grew like a rolling 
snowball, until it became my master, and I couldn't move it. 
The fellow who held me in his power threatened me with expos- 
ure, and as money had to pass through my hands I — (Bridget 
faints) Mother, what — what ails you ? 

And. Bridget, my lass, better for Charley to make a clean 
breast of it, and speak out. 

Char. Vv^ith the dread of disgrace and even worse hanging over 
me — tempted by the sudden sight of money in the hands of a 
man who had, I could have sworn, no right to it himself, I at- 
tacked and robbed him of a pocket-book in which that por- 
trait 

Brid. {in horror) No, no, Charley, not that man ! No, no ! 
{covers her face with her hands) 

Crib. Oh, Miss Kate, what's the matter ? 

Kate enters hurriedly, d. f., and goes to Cribbage as if 
for protection. 

And. What is it? 

Kate. Oh, such a dreadful man ! 

Crib. Who, miss ? 

Kate. Oh, just now, by the gate. He came round the corner 
of the lane so suddenly I was startled, and came on towards the 
house as fast as I could, and when I looked round he was fol- 
lowing me. 

Crav. Oh, some tramp or gipsy. 

Kate. Oh, but he was talking to himself, only quite loud, of 
bank notes and being killed. I couldn't help hearing him. 

Charley, at hearing this, heaves a heavy sigh of partial 
relief. 

Tram, {as he enters) I'll let him see whether I'm to be treated 
like a dog with impunity. There's more money where the rest 

came from, and I {starts on seeing so many people present ; 

seems a little staggered) 



50 DAISY FARM, 

Craven appears struck with the voice and face of the 
Tramp. Bridget, who has held her face hidden in her 
hands, 7iow looks up, and on seei?tg the Tramp shrinks 
back in dismay, but without any loud excla?nation. The 
situation is one of quiet, sustained ijitensity rather thati 
of the loud nielo-dramatic order. Charley turns aside, 
Andrew moves towards Tramp. 

And. {in low voice to Tramp) Why have you come here again ? 

Tram, Why — why have I come here ? Why ? {^pulling him- 
self together) Because I've every right to be here. Eh, eh, Brid- 
get ? Can you deny that right ? or you, Andrew Armstrong, 
can j/^7^ deny it either ? 

Char, {aside) What's this ? 

Crav. {aside) If I don't know thai voice and iha.\. face, I'm 

What strange mystery is this ? 

Tram. Make good my loss, Armstrong, and I leave you un- 
disturbed. 

Bridget watches him very earnestly and searchingly, so 
does Craven. Tramp addresses himself pointedly to 
Armstrong, and not to Bridget. 

Tram, {aside to Andrew) But I don't budge a step till I get 
the money. Some scoundrel robbed me whilst I was in liquor 
last night, and — 

Char, {crossing) Yes, but who had 

Tram. Eh ! Somehow, my young spark, your voice seems 
familiar like, and — very familiar like, {passes hand over fore- 
head) Where have I heard it ? 

Crav. {aside) Now, is that instinct ? It sounds like the voice 
of nature — but — but, I'll swear to my man, or my eyes and ears 
are in league to deceive me. 

Tram. Now, am I to stay or ^f^— which is it ? 

Brid. {who has been intently gazing on the portrait and 
watching the Tramp closely) Andrew — Andrew Armstrong ! 
Husband ! {grasping Andrew's arjn) Do not think me mad ! 
Hear what I say and believe it ! 

And. What do you mean ! 

Brid. What I say and what I declare ! 

Tram, {growing alarmed a7id blustering) And what can you 
declare, woman, but that I — I am 

Brid. Andrew — that man — that man is not David Burridge. 

Crav. {aside) Ha ! 

Char, {aside) David Burridge ! 

Brid. He is strangely — marvellously like him but he is not the 
man he says he is. 

Tram, {taken aback) Ha ! ha ! a clever effort to avoid the ex- 
posure — a real woman's device. But as I possess every proof 



DAISY FARM. 51 

and many a dozen hereabouts will remember me you'll find your 
brazening out the unpleasant fact will avail you nothing — not a 
jot, my dear, as surely as my name's 

Crav. {071 his L., now co?ivi?tced that he is the man he takes 
him for, iti a severe tone as of conunand.) Richard White ! 

Tramp, [struck at the tone and the sudden appearance of 
Craven, who has been an officer in the sham Burridge's regi- 
?nent,from sheer force of habit he gives the military salute, 
and says) Captain ! 

A slight movemoit 071 the part of all at this U7iexpected 
tur7i i7i affairs. 

And. {after a pause) Captain ! What does it mean ? 

Brid. {flushed, a7id sudde7ily happy) It means that I was 
right, Andrew. 

Char. Mother ! {grasps his 77iothers other ha7id j she 
between husba7id a7id son.) 

Tram. What — what are you doing here, sir .'' 

Crav. Well, I haven't been doing anything very useful up to 
the present, but now I really think I ca7i retrieve my character, 
eh, Mrs. Armstrong ? 

Tram, {b luster in gly) Mrs. A 

Crav. {quickly) Armstrong. You don't mean to pretend she's 
Mrs. White, do you ? 

Tram. I mean to pretend she's 

Crav. Yes, you mean to prete7id ; but, unfortunately, if you 
hadn't made that absurd start and convinced me as to your 
identity, you possess another proof that I defy you to conceal 
which is a certain wound that you received in a skirmish 
with the 6th on the left arm just there. {sudde7tly , tvith a quiet 
ferocity ahnost, grasps the Tramp's left ar77i. T'^\'M^ gives a7i 
excla77iatio7i of i7itense pai7i.) 

Tram. Oh ! let me go. 

Crav, W'hen you've told all — not before. 

Tram. It was a desperate thought, one night when he was 
asleep. We'd been fast friends, him and me, and the strange 
likeness between us had drawn us together like ; and many a 
trick and joke we played off on the crew and others, him saying 
he was Richard White, and me passing for David Burridge ; 
and he told me all about his past life and the rest of it. Well, I 
robbed him — it was scarcely robbery, for David Burridge was at 
death's door when I left the ship at Port Royal, and the wreck 
anticipated it but little more than a week, I know. I'd got his 
papers, many long years had passed, I was his living image, and 
— I {ha7igs his head.) 

Crav. {throwi7tg him off) Thank you 1 {to Bridget) Now am 
I a traitor ? 



52 DAISY FARM. 

Brid. Oh, sir, don't speak to me — don't look at me — I'm so 
happy and so ashamed — so — {grasps Andrew's hand, and ap- 
pears almost to cling to him.) 

Tram, [aside) I'd better show them a clean pair of heels. 
Captain Craven's a quiet one, and a slim one, too, but his grip's 
like a vice, and he's got me hard and fast, {turns, and finds 
Cr IBB AGE by his side.) 

Crib. I say, my friend, it seems to me you might ha' been 
transported for this little game of yours, eh ,? 

Tram. Well. 

Crib. Take my advice ; if this matter gets wind, it'll go hard 
with you. Now — a — transport j^^^ri"^//". (Enter GEORGE, D.F.) 
You ain't wanted here, {goes up.) 

Crav. That young woman gives you the best possible advice — 
I'll give you the best possible assistance. You received that 
wound fighting like a demon, now run away like a man. Uyou 
hadn't received it, I might have done it. Richard White, we 
were almost side by side, and in memory of that hot day's work, 
here's a ^5 note. Go ! {points.) 

Tramp looks at him, almost puzzled as to whether he shall 
be indignant or obedient. George has entered. 

Crib, driftging Gy.oilG'E forward — she having explained to 
him at back the state of affairs) Jarge ! you'll see him safe off 
the farm — get him on to the high road — put him with his face 
towards London — and then you can — let's see your boots ! {lifts 
up his leg) Thick 'uns ? 

Geo. A hinch and harf. 

Crib. Good ! Got iron tips to 'em ? 

Geo. Had fresh 'uns on yesterday. 

Crib. Then I leave the rest \o you. {goes up) 

Geo. {to Tramp) Here — come on. 

Tram, {to Craven) Here — captain. 

Crav. Quick march, 

George takes off Tramp under his wing, Tramf first 
pausing a moment with a look of bafifled rage at Craven 
and Andrew. As they go off. Cole enters. Tramp 
turns and gives a growl of rage. COLE is alarmed. 

And. {who has been talking aside to Bridget) So you see, 
dear wife, I could only say and do what I could for the best. 

Brid. I shall never be able to make up for my suspicions and 
hard words, Andrew, but I'll try, dear, I'll try my very best. 

Cole. I've missed the Squire's land, Armstrong ; for he got an 
inkling of the railway business and refused to sell. So I lent 
him the £500 on good security, and at a decent percentage. 
Pembridge will pay twenty shillings in the pound, I find, so I'm 
secure, and 



DAISY FARM. 53 

And. And so am /now, eh, Bridget ? 

Cole. And in consideration of Charley's behavior I think 
nothing could be better timed than to fix the date for 

Crav. To fix the date for his voyage to America — where you 
know, Armstrong, he can see to your brother Robert's affairs. 

Brid. But I couldn't part with \\\x\\yet. 

Crav. Oh, anything like unseemly haste would be sheer 
brutality. We'll say to-morrow morning — early , 

Kate. To-morrow ! 

Char. Mr. Craven is right; and when I come back — if ever I 
do come back — 

Brid. Oh, Charley, don't speak like that. 

Crav. Oh, don't be alarmed, my good lady, he'll come back. 
{aside) People like him always come back. 

Enter George. 

Geo. He's on his way. Blest if he ain't in a hurry too to 
change that fiver. 

Crav. Now, if there is to be a match made up on this aus- 
picious occasion, I think I can fix on a likely couple. Hem ! eh, 
Cribbage ? (Cribbage uncomfortable) 

And. {laughing) What .'' These 1 {pointijig to Cribbage and 
George) 

Crib. Well, I don't see nothin' partickler to laugh at. 

Crav. I was thinking, Cribbage, about that silk dress. A 
nice bright piice, now, with a good broad showy yellow stripe, 
eh ? 

Crib. I can see myself in it. {goes up) 

And. See, Bridget dear, how soon the dark cloud is dispersed 
when the bright ray of truth comes to light up our home. Let 
me see the old look on that face again, and may it never leave 
you, my dear wife, now that happiness has once more found its 
home beneath the roof-tree of Daisy Farm. 

TABLEAU. 

Bridget. Armstrong. 

Cole. Kate, 

Cribbage. Craven. 

George. Charley. 



CURTAIN. 



UNCLE TOM'S CABIN (NEW version.) 

A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS, BY CHAS. TOWNSEND. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Seven male, five female characters (some of the characters play two parts). 
Time of playing, 2^ hours. This is a new acting edition of a prime old favorite, 
so simplified in the stagc-settmg as to be easily represented by dramatic clubs and 
travelling companies with limited scenery. Uncle Tom's Cabin is a play that never 
grows old ; being pure and faultless, it commands the praise of the pulpit and sup- 
port of the press, wl.ile it enlists the favor of all Christians and heads of families. It 
will draw hundreds where other plays draw dozens, and therefore is sure to fill any Hal'. 

Synopsis of Incidents: ActI.— 6"<r^«^ /.— The Shelby plantation in Kentucky. — 
George and Eliza. — The curse of Slavery. — The resolve. — Off for Canada. — "I won't 
be taken — I'll die first." — Shelby end Haley. — Uncle Tom and Harry must be sold. — 
The poor i-«other. — "Sell my boy!" — The faithful slave. Scene II. — Gumption 
Cute. — " By Gum • " — Marks, the law;^er. — A mad Yankee. — George in disguise. — A 
friend in need. — The human bloodhounds. — The escape. — " Hooray £er old Var- 
mount ! " 

Act II.— St. Clare's elegant home.— The fretful wife. — The arrival.— Little Eva.— 
Aunt Ophelia and Topsy. — " O, Golly! I'se so wicked!" — St. Clare's opinion. — 
" Benighted innocence." — The stolen gloves. — Topsy in her glory. 

Act III. — The angel child. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's mischief. — Eva's re- 
quest. — The promise. — pathetic scene. — Death of Eva. — St. Clare's grief. — " For thou 
art gone forever." 

Act IV. — The lonely house. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's keepsake. — Deacon 
Perry and Aunt Ophelia. — Cute on deck. — A distant relative. — The hungry visitor. — 
Chuck full of emptiness." — Cute and the Deacon, — A row. — A fight. — Topsy to the 
rescue. — St. Clare wounded. — Death of St. Clare. — "Eva— Eva — I am coming " 

Act V. — Legree's plantation on the Red River. — Home again. — Uncle Tom's 
noble heart. — " My soul ain't yours, Mas'r." — Legree'scruel work. — Legree andCassy. 
— The white slave.— A frightened brute.— Legree's fear. — A life of sin. — Marks and 
Cute. — A new scheme. — The dreadful whipping of Uncle Tom. — Legree punished at 
last. — Death of Uncle Tom. — Eva in Heaven. 



THE WOVEN WEB. 

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, BY CHAS, TOWNSEND. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Seven male, three female characters, viz. : leading and second juvenile men, so- 
ciety villain, walking gentleman, eccentric comedian, old man, low comedian, leading 
juvenile lady, soubretie and old woman. Time of playing, i]/^ hours. The Woven Weu 
is a flawless drama, pure in thought and action, with excellent characters, and pre- 
senting no difficulties in costumes or scenery. The story is captivating, with a plot 
of the most intense and unflagging interest, rising to a natural climax of wonderful 
power. The wit is bright and sparkling, the action terbC, sharp and rapid. In touch- 
ing the great chord of human sympathy, the author has expended that rare skill 
vrhich has given life to every great play known to the stage. This play has been 
produced under the author's management with marked success, and will prove 
an unquestionable attraction wherever presented. 

Synopsis of Incidents: Act I.— Parkhurst & Manning's law office. New York. 
— Tim's opinion. — The young lawyer. — " Majah Billy Toby, sah ! " — Love and law. 
— Bright prospects. — Bertha's misfortune. — A false friend. — The will destroyed. — A 
cunning plot. — Weaving the web. — The unseen witness. — The letter. — Accused. — 
Dishonored. 

Act II. — Winter quarters. — Colonel Hastings and Sergeant Tim. — Moses. — A 
message. — Tim on his dignity. — The arrival. — Playing soldier. — The secret. — The 
promise. — Harry in danger. — Love and duty. — The promise kept. — " Saved, at the 
loss of my own honor ! " 

Act III. — Drawing-room at Falconer's. — Reading the news. — "Apply to Judy ! " 
— Louise's romance. — Important news. — Bertha's fears. — Leamington s arrival. — 
Drawing the web. — Threatened. — Plotting. — Harry and Bertha. — A fiendish lie. — Face 
to face. — " Do you know him ? " — Denounced. — " Your life shall be the penalty!" — 
Startling tableau. 

Act IV. — At Uncle Toby's. — A wonderful climate. — An impudent rascal. — A bit 
of history. — Woman's wit. — Toby Indignant. — A quarrel. — Uncle Toby's evidence. — 
Leamington's last trump. — Good news. — Checkmated. — The telegram. — Breaking 
the web. — Sunshine at last. 

%^ Copies mailed, postpaid, to atiy address, on rcce'pt of the annexed prices. _^3r 3 



SAVED FROM THE WRECK. 

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. BY THOMAS K. SERRANO. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Eight male, ihree female characters : Leading comedy, juvenile man, genteel 
villain, rough villain, lijiht comedy, escaped convict, detective, utility, juvenile 
lady, leading comedy lady and old woman. Two interior and one landscape scenes. 
Modern costumes. Time of playing, two hours and a half. The scene of the action 
is laid on the New Jersey coast. The plot is of absorbing interest, the "business" 
effective, and the ingenious contrasts of comic and serious situations present a con- 
tinuous series of surprises for the spectators, whose interest is increasingly maintained 
up to the final tableau. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Act I. Thh Home of the Light-house Kkeper. — An autumn afternoon. 

The insult. — True to herself. — A fearless heart. —The unwelcome guest. — Only a 
foundling. — An abuse of confidence. — The new partner. — The compact. — The dead 
brought to life. — Saved from the wreck. — Legal advice. — Married for money.— A 
golden chance. — The intercepted letter. — A vision of wealth.— The forgery. — Hithin 
an inch of his life. — The rescue. — Tableau. 

Act II. Scene as before ; time, night. — Dark clouds gathering. — Changing 
the jackets. — Father and son. — On duty. — A struggle for fortune. — Loved for himself. 
— The divided greenbacks. — The agreement.— An unhappy life. — The detective's mis- 
take. — Arrested. — Mistaken identity. — The likeness again. — On the right track — The 
accident. — "Will she be saved?" — Latour's bravery. — A noble sacrifice. — The secret 
meeting. — Another case of mistaken identity. — The murder. — " Who did it ? " — The 
torn cuff. — ''There stands the murderer!" — " 'Tis false ! "—The wrong man mur- 
dered. — Who was the victim? — Tableau. 

Act III. Two Days Later.— Plot and counterplot.— Gentleman and convict.— 
The price of her life. — Some new documents. — The divided banknotes. — Sunshine 
through the clouds. — Prepared for a watery grave. — Deadly peril. — Fatherand daugh- 
ter. — The rising tide. — A life for a signature. — True unto death. — Saved, — The mys- 
tery solved. — Denouement. — Tableau. 



BETWEEN TWO FIRES. 

A COMEDY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, BY THOMAS K. SERRANO. 

PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Eight male, three female, and utility characters : Leading juvenile man, first and 
second walking gentleman, two light comedians (lawyer and foreign adventurer), 
Dutch and Irish character comedians, villain, soldiers; leading juvenile lady, walk- 
ing lady and comedienne. Three interior scenes ; modern and military costumes. 
Time of playing, two hours and a half. Apart from unusual interest of plot and skill 
of construction, the play affords an opportunity of representing the progress of a 
real_ battle in the distance (though this is not necessary to the action). The comedy 
business is delicious, if well worked up, and a startling phase of the slavery question 
is sprung upon the audience in the last act. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Act I. At Fort Lee, on the Hudson.— News from the war.— The meeting. 
— The colonel's strange romance. — Departing for the war. — The intrusted packet. — An 
honest man. — A last request. — Bitter hatred. — The dawn of love. — A northerner's 
sympathy for the South. — Is he a traitor? — Held in trust. — La Creole mine for sale. — 
Financial agents. — A brother's wrong. — An order to cross the enemy's lines. — For- 
tune's fool. — Love's penalty. — Man's independence. — Strange disclosures. — A sha- 
dowed life. — Beggared in pocket, and bankrupt in love. — His last chance. — The re- 
fusal. — Turned from home. — Alone, without a name — Off to the war. — Tableau. 

Act II. Om the Battlefield. — An Irishman's philosophy. — Unconscious of 
danger.— Spies in the camp. — The insult. — Risen from the ranks. — The colonel's prej- 
udice. — Letters from home. — Tlie plot to ruin. — A token of love. — True to him. — 
The plotters at work. — Breaking the seals. — The meeting of husband and wife. — A 
forlorn hope. — Doomed as a spy. — A struggle for lost honor. — A soldier's death. — 
Tableau. 

Act III. Before Richmond. — The home of Mrs. De Mori. — The two docu- 
ments. — A little misunderstanding. — A deserted wife. — The truth revealed. — Brought 
to light. — Mother and chi'd. — Rowena's sacrifice. — The American Eagle spreads his 
wings. — The spider's web. — True to himself. — The reconciliation, — A long divided 
home reunited. — The close of the war. — Tableau. 

%^ Copies mailed y postpaid^ to any address^ on receipt e/ the annexed prices. ..^gf 



BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. 

A. Drania in Kivk Acts, by H. V. Voqt. 



Price, 15 Cents. 



Nine male, three female characters, 7//z. ; Leading and Second Juvenile Men, 
Old Man, Genteel Villain, Walking Gentleman, First and Second Light Comedians, 
Heavy Character, Low^ Comedian, Leading and Second Juvenile Ladies and Comi^- 
Old Maid. Time of playing, Two hours and a half. 

SYNOPSIS OF EVENTS. 



Act L Love vs. Impulse.— DoUer- 
clutch's office. — A fruitless journey, a 
heap of accumulated business and a 
chapter of unparalleled impudence.— 
NewTs from the front. — A poor girl's 
trouble and a lawyer's big heart.— Hil- 
da's sad story. — "I'll see this thing 
through if it costs me a fortune ! " — A 
sudden departure in search of a clue — 
The meeting of friends. — One of nature's 
noblemen.— Maitland betrays his secret 
by a slip of the tongue. — The ball at 
Beachwood. — Two spooneys.f resh from 
coUege.lose their heads and their hearts. 
— "Squashed, by Jupiter!' — Trusting 
innocence and polished villainy. — The 
interrupted tryst. — An honest man's 
avowal. — A picture of charming simpli- 
city. — Murdell and Hilda meet face to 
face. — "I dare you to make another 
victim !"— A scoundrel's discomfiture. — 
Tableau. 

Act II. The Separation. — The Mait- 
land homestead. — Anastasia's doubts. — 
A warm welcome and its icy reception. 
—Forebodings and doubts. — Father and 
son. — Searching questions.— A domestic 
storm and a parent's command. — A 
foiled villain's wrath. — Enlisting for the 
war. — The collapse of the cowards. — 
" It 's no use, 'Dolphy, the jig 's up !" — 
Hilda's sympathy and Adrienne's silent 
despair. — The result of impulse. — The 
father pleads for his son. — Anastasia 
and Dollerclutch. — Coriolanus comes to 
grief. — Good and bad news. — Husband 
and wife. — Reginald demands an ex- 

?lanation. — A hand without a heart. — 
he separation. — A new recruit. — ^Too 
late ; the roll is signed. — Tableau. 

Act III. Duty vs. Impulse.— Four 
years later. — A camp in the army. — 
Longings. — " Only six miles from 
home !"— The skeleton in the closet. — 
A father's yearning for his child. — A 
woman-hater in love. — Dollerclutch's 
dream. — A picture of camp life and fun. 
— Coriolanus has his revenge. — News 
from home. — Dollerclutch makes a big 
find. "Eureka!" — Proofs of Hilda's 
parentage and maiTiage. — A happy old 



lawyer. — " I '11 take them to Hilda ! " — 
Detailed for duty. — A soldier's tempta- 
tion. — The sentinel deserts his post. — 
The snake in the grass. — "At last, I can 
humble his pride ! " 

Act IV. The Reconciliation and 
Sequel. — At Reginald's home. — News 
from the army. — " Grant is not the man 
to acknowledge defeat !" — Adrienne and 
Hilda. — False pride is broken. — The re- 
conciliation. — " Will Reginald forgive 
me?" — Dollerclutch brings joy to Hil- 
da's heart. — "You are the daughter of 
Morris Maitland !" — The stolen docu- 
ments and the snake in the grass. — 
"Hane me if I don't see this thing 
through !" — A letter to the absent one. — 
Face to face, — The barrier of pride 
swept down. — "Reginald, I love you; 
come back!"— The happy reunion.— An 
ominous cloud. — "I have deserted my 
post ; the penalty is death. I must re- 
turn ere my absence is discovered 1" — 
The wolf in the sheepfold. — A wily 
tempter foiled. — A villain's rage. — 
" Those words have sealed your doom !" 
— The murder and the escape. — 
Dollerclutch arrives too late. — The pur- 
suit. 

Act V. Divine Impulse. — In camp. — 
Maitland on duty. — The charge of de- 
sertion and the examination. — "I knew 
not what I did !" — The colonel's lenity. — 
Disgrace. — News of Adrienne's murder 
is brought to camp. — Circumstantial 
evidence fastens the murder iipon Reg- 
inald.— The court-martial. — Convicted 
and sentenced to be shot. — Preparations 
for the execution. — ' God knows I am 
innocent! " — Dollerclutch arrives in the 
nick of time. — "If you shoot that man 
you commit murder!" — The beginning 
of the end. — "Adrienne lives!" — A vil- 
lain's terror. — Adrienne appears on the 
scene. — " There is the attempted assas- 
sin !" — Divine impulse. — The reward of 
innocence and the punishment of vil- 
lainy. — Good news. — " Hurrah, the war 
is over; Lee has surrendered to Grant !" 
— The happy denouement ^n^ finale. — 
Tableau. 



Copies Mailed, post-paid, to any address on riceipt aftht advertised price. 

HAROLD ROORBACK, Publishier, 

9 MURRAV SX., I»JHW VORK. 



NEW ENTERTAINMENTS. 

THE JAPANESE WEDDING. 

A costume pantomime representation of the Wedding Ceremony in Japincse high life. 
'I'he company consists of the bride and groom, their parents, six bridesmaids, and 
the olificiating personage appropriately called the '" Go-between." There are 
various formalities, including salaams, tea-drinking, eating rice-cakes, and giving 
presents. No words are spoken. The ceremony (which occupies about 50 
minute^), with the " tea-room," fills out an evening well, though music and other 
attractions may be added. Can 1)e represented by j'oung ladie> alone, if preferred. 
Price, 25 Cents. 

AN EVENING WITH PICKWICK. 

A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces the Pickwick Club, 
the Wardies of Dingley Dell, the Fat Boy, Alfred Jingle, Mrs. Leo Hunter, Lord 
Mutanhed and Count .Smorltork, Arabella Alien and Bob Allen, Bob Sawyer, Mrs. 
and Master Bardell. Mrs. Cluppins. Mrs. Weller, Stiggins, Tony Weller, Sam 
Weller, and the Ladv 'I'ravellei. Price, 25 cents. 

AN EVENING WITH COPPERFIELD. 

A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Litroduces >hs. Copperfield, 
l^avie, the Peggotys, the Murdstones, Mrs. Gummidge, Little Em'ly, Barkis, 
Betsey Trotwood, Mr. Dick and his kite, Steerforth, the Creakles, Traddles, 
Rosa Dartle, Miss Mowcher, Uriah Heep and his Mother, the Micawbers, Dora 
and Gyp, and the wooden-legged Gatekeeper. Price, 25 cents. 
These " Evenings with Dickens " can be represented in whole or in part, require 
but little memorizing, do not demand experienced actors, are not troublesome to pre- 
pare, and are suitable for performance either on the platform or in the drawing room. 

THE GYPSIES' FESTIVAL. 

A Mii>ic.^l Entectainment for Young People. Introduces the Gypsy Queen, Fortune 
Teller, Yankee Peddler, and a Chorus of Gypsies, of any desired number. The 
•■•cene is supposed to be a Gypsy Camp. The costumes are very pretty, but 
simple ; the dialogue bright ; the music easy and tuneful ; and the drill movements 
and calisthenics are graceful. Few properties and no set scenery required, so 
that the entertainment can be represented on any platform. Price, 25 cents. 

THE COURT OF KING CHRISTMAS. 

A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. The action takes place in Santa Claus 
land on Christmas eve, and represents the bustling preparations of St. Nick and 
his attendant worthies for the gratification of all children the next day. The cast 
niaj- include as many as 36 ch.aracters, though fewer will answer, and the enter- 
tainment represented on a platform, without troublesome properties. The cos- 
Ilk lumes are simple, the incidental music and drill movements graceful and easily 
W managed, the dialogue uncommonly good, and the whole thing quite above the 
r .-average. A representation of this entertainment will cause the young folks, from 
six to sixty, fairly to turn themselves inside out with delight, and, at the same 
time, enforce the important moral of Peace and Good Will. Price, 25 cents. 
JRECEiV TL ] ' PUBL I SHED. 

ILLUSTRATED TABLEAUX FOR AMATEURS. A new series of Tableaux 
I'lvants, by Martha C. Weld. In this series each description is accompanied 
with a full-page illustration of the scene to be represented. - 
PART L— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains General Introduction, 

12 Tableaux and 14 Illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. 
PART II.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Cont.iins Introduction, 12 Ta- 
bleaux and 12 illu'^trations. Price, 25 Cents. 

SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
female characters. 'lime, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A comedy-drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. A drama in five acts. Nine male, three female 
characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

A LESSON IN ELEGANCE. A comedy in one act. Four female characters. 
Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. 

W^ANTED, A CONFIDENTIAL CLERK. A farce in one act. Six male 
characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. . 

SECOND SIGHT. A farcical comedy in one act. Four male, one female charac- 
ter. Time, one hour. Price, 15 Cents. 

THE TRIPLE WEDDING. A drama in three acts. Four male, four female 
characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. Price, 15 cents. 
l^WAny 0/ the above zvill be sent by jnail^ postpaid, to any address^ on recei/>t 

c/ihe annexed priLes^,^^i 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St.,^New York. 



HELM EI 

ACTOR'S MAKE 

^ Priici!< r.l and rystetnatic Guide to the ^. 



LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 




014 455 171 



PRICE, 25 CENTS. 



VvTlTH EXHAUSTIVE TREATMENT ON THE USE OF THEATRICAL 

Wigs axd Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials, the 
different features and their management, typical character 
Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the 
USE OF Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- 
men. Copiously Illustrated. 

CONTENTS. 

L Theatrical Wigs. — The Style and Form of Theatrkal Wigs 
and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. 
Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. 

n. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crep6 
hair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- 
lated. 

HL The Make-up — A successful Character Mask, and how to 
make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. 

IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paintL in 
sticks; Flesh Cream ; Face Powder; How to use face powder a a 
Itqutd cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water 
3n6tique. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr^pe 1 
arvd Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. "Old Maj 
Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Be 
Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hart 
Peet. Camels'-hair Brushes. 

V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- 
ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or 
moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- 
brows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The 
Ears. The Nose : A Roman nose; How to use the nose putty; A 
pug nose ; An African nose; a large nose apparently reduced in size. 
The Mouth and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous 
mouth ; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth; a merry mouth ; A 
sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- 
nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- 
ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A 
Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. 

VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth : 
Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- 
ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. 
Chinese. King Lear. Shylock. Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. 
Clowns. 

VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. Theatrical 
"Wigs and Hair Goods. 

Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of the price. 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 

O Murray Street, New York, 



